UN-      •i.TY  OF 
San  0IE6O 


VGr 


H3 


IVAN   TURGENIEFF 


Volume  XIII 


PHANTOMS  !S[  AND 
OTHER   STORIES  )S 


\ni\\mv^'\i 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
IVAN    TUBGENIEFF 


♦  PHANTOMS  •»  AND 
OTHER  STORIES  ♦* 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN    BY 
ISABEI    1.   HAPCiOOD 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1904 


fie  were  flying  over  a  county  capital  with  which  I  was  unfamiliar. 
From  a  drawing  by  THORNTON  OAKLEY 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
IVAN    TURGENIEFF 


♦  PHANTOMS  •«•  AND 
OTHER  STORIES  4. -fr 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN    BY 
ISABEL  F.  HAPGOOD 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Soks 


I        PREFACE 

^*  Phantoms  "  and  "  It  is  Enough  "  were  writ- 
ten next  after  "  Fathers  and  Children."  Al- 
though one  of  TurgeniefF's  minor  works,  the 
critics  pronounced  "Phantoms"  original,  wonder- 
fully artistic  and  philosophical,  and  wonderfully 
lyrical.  The  author  himself  called  it  "  a  fantasy," 
as  he  did  other  sketches  in  which  he  sometimes 
poured  out,  in  lyrical  form,  his  sadness  evoked  by 
the  contrary  laws  of  nature,  and  man's  aspirations 
toward  the  absolute,  the  eternal.  It  demonstrates 
the  somewhat  mystical  romanticism  which  lay  con- 
cealed in  Turgenieif' s  nature,  and  only  occasion- 
ally came  to  the  light. 

"  YakoiF  Pasynkoff  "  constitutes  the  author's 
response  to  Hegel's  sentimental  romanticism. 
The  hero  of  the  story  is  a  martyr  to  the  renun- 
ciation of  egotism — a  peculiar  figure,  toward 
which  TurgeniefF  bore  himself  with  the  most  fer- 
vent sympathy.  YakofF  is  sympathetic,  as  well 
as  poetical,  but  remote  from  real  life.  One  critic 
objects  that  the  story  is  weak  and  incomplete  and, 
as  it  were,  split  into  two  parts,  which  are  unsym- 
metrical  alone,  and  badly  assorted  when  taken  to- 
gether.    Another  critic  says  that  YakofF  is  the 


PREFACE 

very  personification  of  moral  purity  and  self-sac- 
rifice, devoid  of  a  single  drop  of  conceit,  weakness, 
or  egotism;  the  personification  of  devotion  to  a 
beloved  object,  reminding  us  of  Schiller's  Graf 
Toggenburg.  Yet  he  remains  uncomprehended, 
and,  despite  all  his  fine  qualities,  he  perishes  with- 
out leaving  a  trace,  like  all  Turgenieff 's  other 
"  superfluous  men." 

Not  all  of  Turgenieff 's  heroes  are  alike,  neither 
do  they  all  belong  in  his  category  of  Ham- 
lets; but  they  all  share  the  same  fate:  all  are 
overtaken  by  failure,  by  that  fatal  curse  which 
seems  to  hang  over  the  lives  of  all  good  people, 
and  bar  their  road  to  happiness.  "  In  what  does 
this  curse  consist? "  asks  the  critic.  Turgenieff 
himself  alludes  to  this  fact  in  one  of  his  stories, 
and  says  that,  sometimes,  he  seems  to  descry  a 
cause  for  it.  YakofF  Pasynkoff  belongs  with  In- 
sarofF  and  Solomin,  in  the  long  series  of  Hamlets 
whom  Turgenieff  delineated — Hamlets  in  whom 
the  faculty  of  pondering  over  things  had  slain  en- 
ergy, and  who,  in  literature  as  in  life,  have  re- 
placed the  romantic  heroes  of  the  Don  Quixote 
type.  And  precisely  herein  lies  TurgeniefF's 
great  service  as  an  artist — that  he  correctly  under- 
stood and  faithfully  convicted  this  type  of  its 
moral  weakness. 

"  Faust,"  together  with  "  Asya,"  and  "  A  Cor- 
respondence "  are  distinguished  among  the  au- 
thor's works  for  their  elegance  of  form,  and  their 

vi 


PREFACE 

tender,  poetic  treatment.  The  heroes  of  these 
tales  are  TurgeniefF's  real  favourites.  In  the 
ranks  of  his  superfluous  men  they  represent  the 
aristocracy,  as  it  were — the  highest,  the  most  re- 
fined stratum.  They  are  Russian  gentlemen 
from  head  to  foot,  like  their  creator,  whp  have 
tasted  Western  civilization  and  are  fastidious  to 
the  point  of  squeamishness. 

TurgeniefF's  views  of  life  were  pessimistic  in 
general,  and  permeated  with  distrust  in  the  sta- 
bility of  human  happiness,— and,  as  it  were,  with 
a  foreboding  of  inevitable  disenchantment  in  the 
end.  This  fundamental  motive  we  meet  in  all  of 
his  novels,  without  exception.  In  "  Faust  " — as 
in  "  YakofF  PasynkofF  "—there  is  no  question  of 
a  social  conflict,  or  of  social  problems.  It  is  merely 
a  record  of  private,  every-day  life.  Pavel  Ale- 
xandrovitch  B.  is  a  superfluous  man,  but  started 
life  under  better  auspices  than  did  some  of  Tur- 
geniefF's previous  characters  of  the  same  stamp, 
and  is  far  from  being  as  hopeless  a  case  as  Riidin. 
Of  all  the  superfluous  men  whom  he  created,  the 
hero  of  "  Faust "  most  nearly  resembles  Tur- 
genieff  himself.  "  Never  before  or  afterwards," 
says  one  critic,  "  did  TurgeniefF  rise  to  such  a 
height  ( save  in  '  A  Nobleman's  Nest ' )  as  in  the 
description  of  the  old  house  and  park,— of  the 
family  nest, — contained  in  that  magnificent  letter 
from  Pavel  B.  to  his  friend.  But  Pavel  B.,  like 
the  hero  of  "  Asya,"  had  not  the  strength  to  meet 

vii 


PREFACE 

the  crisis  when  it  came.  The  mournfully  pathetic 
ending  to  all  three  of  these  stories—"  Faust," 
"  Asya,"  and  "  Yakoff  PasynkofF  "—again  ex- 
presses Turgenieff 's  deep  distrust  in  happiness  in 
life.  But  possibly  his  idea  may  have  been  that 
happiness  lies  in  the  initial  stages  of  love— in  the 
imperfect  possession  of  the  beloved  object— at 
which  his  heroes  stop  short. 

"  Faust "  was  written  in  the  interval  between 
"  Rudin  "  and  "  A  Nobleman's  Nest."  It  seems 
to  mark  the  crisis  which  took  place  in  the  author's 
spiritual  life— a  crisis  which  gave  him  the  strength 
to  create  "  A  Nobleman's  Nest." 

In  "  Asya  "  Turgenieff  furnished  the  defend- 
ers of  independence  in  Russian  feminine  nature 
with  another  weighty  proof.  Hence  this  little 
story  constitutes  one  of  those  sympathetic  bonds 
which  united  the  great  writer  to  the  Russian  read- 
ing public.  Its  hero  is  another  portrait  from  the 
author's  gallery  of  men  who  turn  pusillanimous  in 
the  presence  of  a  woman,  and  show  that  they  are 
inferior  to  her.  As  Solomin,  in  "  Virgin  Soil," 
puts  it:  "  All  Russian  women  are  more  active  and 
more  lofty  than  the  men."  Here  is  a  man  whose 
heart  is  open  to  all  elevated  emotions,  whose  hon- 
our is  impeccable,  whose  mind  is  receptive  to  all 
noble  aspirations.  "  And  what  does  this  man  do? 
He  makes  a  scene  which  would  disgrace  the  worst 
extortioner,"  says  one  critic.  Some  people  re- 
sented the  author's  presenting  this  character  as  an 

viii 


PREFACE 

honourable  man.  "  But,"  as  one  critic  remarks, 
"  therein  Hes  the  melancholy  merit  of  his  story— 
that  the  hero's  character  is  so  faithful  to  our  so- 
ciety." Asya  herself  is  equally  faithful  to  life— 
a  charming,  fresh,  free  child  of  nature;  yielding 
herself  wholly  to  each  successive  impression  and 
emotion.  I.  F.  H. 


IX 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

PHANTOMS:  A  FANTASY 1 

YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 55 

"  FAUST  ":  A  STORY  IN  NINE  LETTERS      .     .  127 

AN  EXCURSION  TO  THE  FOREST  BELT  ...  203 

ASYA 239 


PHANTOMS 

(1863) 


PHANTOMS 


A  FANTASY 

One  instant  .  .  .  and  the  magic  tale  is  o'er— 
And  with  the  possible  the  soul  is  filled  once  more. 

A.  Fet.i 


I  COULD  not  get  to  sleep  for  a  long  time,  and 
kept  tossing  incessantly  from  side  to  side. 
"  May  the  devil  take  those  table-tipping  follies!  " 
—  I  thought:  —  "they  only  upset  the  nerves." — 
Drowsiness  began  to  overpower  me.  .  . 

Suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  a  chord 
had  twanged  faintly  and  lugubriously  in  the 
room. 

I  raised  my  head.  The  moon  was  hanging  low 
in  the  sky,  and  staring  me  straight  in  the  eye. 
White  as  chalk  its  light  lay  on  the  floor.  .  .  . 
The  strange  sound  was  clearly  repeated. 

I  leaned  on  my  elbow.  A  slight  alarm  nipped 
at  my  heart.  —  One  minute  passed,  then  another. 
....  A  cock  crowed  somewhere  in  the  distance ; 
still  further  away  another  answered. 

I  dropped  my  head  on  my  pillow.    "  Just  see 

^The  pseudonym  of  Afanisy  Afanasievitch  Sh^nshin 
(1820-1892).— Translator. 

3 


PHANTOMS 

to  what  one  can  bring  one's  self,"  I  began  my  re- 
flections again: — "my  ears  will  begin  to  ring." 

A  little  later  I  fell  asleep— or  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  did.  I  had  a  remarkable  dream.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  though  I  were  lying  in  my  bedroom,  in 
my  bed,  but  I  was  not  asleep,  and  could  not  close 
my  eyes.  ...  I  turned  over.  .  .  .  The  streak  of 
moonlight  on  the  floor  softly  began  to  rise  up, 
to  straighten  itself,  to  become  slightly  rounded  at 
the  top.  .  .  .  Before  me,  transparent  as  mist, 
a  white  woman  stood  motionless. 

"  Who  art  thou?  " — I  asked  with  an  effort. 

The  voice  which  replied  was  like  the  rustling 
of  leaves. — "  It  is  I ....  I ....  I ....  I  have  come 
for  thee." 

"  For  me  ?    But  who  art  thou  ?  " 

"  Come  by  night  to  the  corner  of  the  forest, 
where  the  old  oak  stands.    I  shall  be  there." 

I  tried  to  get  a  good  look  at  the  features  of 
the  mysterious  woman — and  suddenly  I  gave  an 
involuntary  start:  I  felt  a  chill  breath  on  me. 
And  now  I  was  no  longer  lying  in  my  bed,  but 
sitting  on  it— and  there,  where  the  spectre  had 
seemed  to  stand,  the  moonlight  lay  in  a  long 
streak  on  the  floor. 

II 

The  day  passed  after  a  fashion.  I  remember 
that  I  tried  to  read,  to  work  ....  it  came  to  no- 

4 


PHANTOMS 

thing.  Night  arrived.  My  heart  beat  violently 
within  me,  as  though  I  were  expecting  something. 
I  went  to  bed  and  turned  my  face  to  the  wall. 

"Why  didst  thou  not  come?" — an  audible 
whisper  rang  out  in  the  room. 

I  glanced  round  swiftly. 

It  was  she  again  ....  the  mysterious  phan- 
tom. Motionless  eyes  in  a  motionless  face,  and 
a  gaze  full  of  grief. 

"Come!" — the  whisper  made  itself  heard 
again. 

"  I  will  come," — I  replied,  with  involuntary 
terror.  The  phantom  quietly  swayed  forward, 
and  became  all  mixed  up,  undulating  lightly  like 
smoke; — and  the  moonlight  again  lay  white  upon 
the  polished  floor. 

Ill 

I  PASSED  the  day  in  a  state  of  agitation.  At  sup- 
per I  drank  almost  a  whole  bottle  of  wine,  and 
started  to  go  out  on  the  porch ;  but  returned,  and 
flung  myself  on  my  bed.  My  blood  was  surging 
heavily  through  my  veins. 

Again  a  sound  made  itself  heard.  ...  I  shud- 
dered, but  did  not  look  round.  Suddenly  I  felt 
some  one  clasp  me  in  a  close  embrace  from  behind, 
and  whisper  in  my  ear:  "  Come,  come,  come!" 
.  .  .  .  Trembling  with  fright  I  groaned: 

"  I  will  come!  " — and  straightened  myself  up. 

5 


PHANTOMS 

The  woman  stood  bending  over  me,  close  beside 
the  head  of  my  bed.  She  smiled  faintly  and  van- 
ished. But  I  had  succeeded  in  scrutinising  her 
face.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  seen  her  before ; 
— but  where?  when?  I  rose  late  and  roamed  about 
the  fields  all  daj^  long,  approached  the  old  oak- 
tree  on  the  border  of  the  forest,  and  made  an  at- 
tentive inspection  of  the  surroundings. 

Toward  evening  I  seated  myself  at  an  open 
window  in  my  study.  The  old  housekeeper  set  a 
cup  of  tea  before  me — but  I  did  not  taste  it; 
.  .  .  .  I  kept  wondering  and  asking  myself: 
"  Am  not  I  losing  my  mind?  "  The  sun  had  only 
just  set — and  not  only  did  the  sky  grow  red,  but 
the  whole  air  suddenly  became  suffused  with  an 
almost  unnatural  crimson;  the  leaves  and  grass, 
as  though  covered  with  fresh  varnish,  did  not 
stir;  in  their  stony  immobility,  in  the  sharp  bril- 
liancy of  their  outlines,  in  that  commingling  of 
a  strong  glow  and  death-like  tranquillity,  there 
was  something  strange,  enigmatical.  A  rather 
large  grey  bird  flew  up  without  any  sound,  and 
alighted  on  the  very  edge  of  the  window.  ...  I 
looked  at  it — and  it  looked  at  me  askance  with 
its  round,  dark  eye.  "  I  wonder  if  she  did  not 
send  thee  in  order  to  remind  me?" — I  thought. 

The  bird  immediately  fluttered  its  soft  wings, 
and  flew  away,  as  before,  without  any  noise.  I 
sat  for  a  long  time  still  at  the  window,  but  I  no 
longer  gave  myself  up  to  wonder:  I  seemed  to 

6 


PHANTOMS 

have  got  into  a  charmed  circle,  and  an  irresisti- 
ble though  quiet  power  was  drawing  me  on,  as 
the  onrush  of  the  torrent  draws  the  boat  while 
still  far  away  from  the  falls.  At  last  I  gave  a 
start.  The  crimson  had  long  since  disappeared 
from  the  air,  the  hues  had  darkened,  and  the  en- 
chanted silence  had  ceased.  A  breeze  was  begin- 
ning to  flutter  about,  the  moon  stood  out  with 
ever-increasing  distinctness  in  the  sky  which  was 
turning  darkly  blue, — and  soon  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  began  to  gleam  silver  and  black  in  its  cold 
rays.  My  old  woman  entered  my  study  with  a 
lighted  candle,  but  the  draught  from  the  window 
blew  on  it  and  extinguished  the  flame.  I  could 
endure  it  no  longer ;  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  banged 
my  cap  down  on  my  head,  and  set  out  for  the  cor- 
ner of  the  forest,  for  the  aged  oak. 


IV 

Many  years  before,  this  oak  had  been  struck  by 
lightning;  its  crest  had  been  shattered  and  had 
withered  away,  but  it  still  retained  life  enough 
for  several  centuries.  As  I  began  to  draw  near 
to  it,  a  dark  cloud  floated  across  the  moon :  it  was 
very  dark  under  its  wide-spreading  boughs.  At 
first  I  did  not  notice  anything  peculiar;  but  I 
glanced  to  one  side— and  my  heart  sank  within 
me ;  a  white  figure  was  standing  motionless  beside 

7 


PHANTOMS 

a  tall  bush,  between  the  oak-tree  and  the  forest. 
My  hair  rose  slightly  on  my  head;  but  I  sum- 
moned my  courage,  and  advanced  toward  the 
forest. 

Yes,  it  was  she,  my  nocturnal  visitor.  As  I 
approached  her,  the  moon  shone  forth  again.  She 
seemed  all  woven  of  semi-transparent,  milky 
vapour,— through  her  face  I  could  see  a  branch 
softly  waving  in  the  wind, — only  her  hair  and 
eyes  shone  dimly-black,  and  on  one  of  the  fingers 
of  her  clasped  hands  gleamed  a  narrow  gold  ring. 
I  halted  in  front  of  her,  and  tried  to  speak; 
but  my  voice  died  in  my  breast,  although  I  no 
longer  felt  any  real  terror.  Her  eyes  were  turned 
upon  me;  their  gaze  expressed  neither  grief  nor 
joy,  but  a  certain  lifeless  attention.  I  waited  to 
see  whether  she  would  utter  a  word ;  but  she  stood 
motionless  and  dumb,  and  kept  gazing  at  me 
with  her  deadly-intent  look.  Again  I  began  to 
feel  uneasy. 

"  I  have  come!" — I  exclaimed  at  last  with  an 
effort.     My  voice  had  a  dull,  queer  ring. 

"  I  love  thee," — a  whisper  became  audible. 

"  Thou  lovest  me! " — I  repeated  in  amazement. 

"  Give  thyself  to  me," — rustled  the  voice  again 
in  reply  to  me. 

"  Give  myself  to  thee!  But  thou  art  a  phantom 
— thou  hast  no  body." — A  strange  sensation  over- 
powered me. — "  What  art  thou, — smoke,  air,  va- 
pour?   Give  myself  to  thee!    Answer  me  first — 

8 


PHANTOMS 

who  art  thou?  Hast  thou  hved  upon  earth? 
Whence  hast  thou  revealed  thyself?  " 

"  Give  thyself  to  me.  I  will  do  thee  no  harm. 
Say  only  two  words : '  Take  me.' " 

I  looked  at  her.  "  What  is  that  she  is  saying?  '* 
I  thought.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this? 
And  how  will  she  take  me?  Shall  I  try  the  ex- 
periment? " 

"Well,  very  good,"— I  uttered  aloud,  and 
with  unexpected  force,  as  though  some  one  had 
given  me  a  push  from  behind.    "  Take  me !  " 

Before  I  had  finished  uttering  these  words,  the 
mysterious  figure,  with  a  sort  of  inward  laugh, 
which  made  her  face  quiver  for  an  instant,  swayed 
forward,  her  arms  separated  and  were  out- 
stretched. ...  I  tried  to  spring  aside ;  but  I  was 
already  in  her  power.  She  clasped  me  in  her  em- 
brace, my  body  rose  about  fourteen  inches  from 
the  earth — and  we  both  soared  oif,  smoothly  and 
not  too  swiftly,  over  the  wet,  motionless  grass. 


At  first  my  head  reeled,  and  I  involuntarily  closed 
my  eyes.  ...  A  minute  later,  I  opened  them 
again.  We  were  floating  on  as  before.  But  the 
forest  was  no  longer  visible;  beneath  us  lay  out- 
spread a  level  plain  dotted  with  dark  spots.  With 
terror  I  convinced  myself  that  we  had  risen  to  a 
fearful  height. 

9 


PHANTOMS 

"  I  am  lost— I  am  in  the  power  of  Satan,'* 
flashed  through  me  hke  hghtning.  Up  to  that 
moment,  the  thought  of  obsession  by  an  unclean 
power,  of  the  possibility  of  damnation,  had  not 
entered  my  head.  We  continued  to  dash  head- 
long onward,  and  seemed  to  be  soaring  ever 
higher  and  higher. 

"  Whither  art  thou  carrying  me?  " — I  moaned 
at  last. 

"  Wherever  thou  wishest,"— replied  my  fellow- 
traveller.  She  was  sticking  close  to  me  all  over; 
her  face  almost  rested  on  my  face.  Nevertheless, 
I  barely  felt  her  touch. 

"  Let  me  down  to  the  earth ;  I  feel  giddy  at  this 
height." 

"  Good;  only  shut  your  eyes  and  do  not  take 
breath." 

I  obeyed — and  immediately  felt  myself  falling, 
like  a  stone  which  has  been  hurled.  .  .  .  the  wind 
whistled  through  my  hair.  When  I  came  to  my- 
self, we  were  again  floating  close  above  the 
ground,  so  that  we  caught  in  the  tips  of  the  tall 
plants. 

"Set  me  on  my  feet,"— I  began.— "What 
pleasure  is  there  in  flying?    I  am  not  a  bird." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  agreeable  to  you.  We 
have  no  other  occupation." 

"  You  have  not?    But  who  are  you?  " 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Thou  dost  not  dare  to  tell  me  that? " 

10 


PHANTOMS 

A  plaintive  sound,  like  that  which  had  awak- 
ened me  on  the  first  night,  trembled  on  my  ear. 
In  the  meantime,  we  continued  to  move  almost 
imperceptibly  through  tlie  night  air. 

"  Let  me  go!  " — I  said.  My  companion  bent 
backward,  and  I  found  myself  on  my  feet.  She 
came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  me  and  again  clasped 
her  hands.  I  recovered  my  equanimity  and 
looked  her  in  the  face:  as  before,  it  expressed 
submissive  grief. 

"  Where  are  we?  " — I  queried.  I  did  not  rec- 
ognise my  surroundings. 

"  Far  from  thy  home,  but  thou  mayest  be  there 
in  one  moment." 

"  In  what  manner?  Am  I  to  trust  myself  to 
thee  again? " 

"  I  have  not  done  and  will  not  do  thee  any 
harm.  We  shall  float  together  until  dawn,  that  is 
all.  I  can  carry  thee  whithersoever  thou  wishest 
— to  all  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Give  thyself  to 
me;  say  again:  '  Take  me! '  " 

"Well,  then  ....  take  me!" 

Again  she  fell  upon  my  neck,  again  my  feet 
left  the  earth — and  away  we  flew. 


VI 


ti 


Whither?  "—she  asked  me. 
"  Straight  ahead,  ever  straight  ahead." 
"  But  the  forest  lies  in  that  direction." 

11 


PHANTOMS 

"  Let  us  rise  above  the  forest — only,  very 
gently." 

We  soared  aloft,  like  wood-snipe  flying  upon 
a  birch-tree,  and  again  floated  on  in  a  straight 
line.  Instead  of  grass,  the  crests  of  the  trees 
flitted  past  under  our  feet.  It  was  wonderful  to 
see  the  forest  from  above,  its  bristling  spine  all 
illuminated  by  the  moon.  It  seemed  some  sort 
of  a  vast  slumbering  wild  beast,  and  accompanied 
us  with  a  broad,  incessant  rustling,  resembling  an 
unintelligible  growl.  Here  and  there  we  came 
across  small  glades;  a  dentated  strip  of  shadow 
stood  out  finely  in  black  on  one  side  of  them. 
....  Now  and  then  a  hare  cried  pitifully  below ; 
up  above,  an  owl  whistled,  also  in  plaintive  wise ; 
there  was  an  odour  of  mushrooms,  of  buds,  of 
lovage  abroad  in  the  air;  the  moonlight  fairly 
poured  in  a  flood  in  all  directions — coldly  and 
severely ;  the  myriad  stars  glittered  directly  above 
our  heads. 

And  now  the  forest  was  left  behind;  athwart 
the  plain  stretched  a  strip  of  mist;  a  river  flowed 
there.  We  floated  along  one  of  its  shores,  above 
the  bushes,  rendered  heavy  and  immovable  by 
humidity.  The  waves  on  the  river  now  glistened 
with  a  blue  gleam,  now  rolled  on  darkly  and  as 
though  they  were  vicious.  In  places  a  thin  vapour 
moved  strangely  above  it,  and  the  cups  of  the 
water-lilies  shone  out  with  the  virginal  and  sump- 
tuous whiteness  of  all  their  unfolded  petals,  as 

12 


PHANTOMS 

though  they  knew  that  they  were  inaccessible.  I 
took  it  into  my  head  to  pluck  one  of  them — and 
lo!  I  immediately  found  myself  directly  over  the 
smooth  surface  of  the  river.  .  .  .  The  dampness 
struck  me  unpleasantly  in  the  face  as  soon  as  I 
had  broken  the  strong  stem  of  a  large  blossom. 
We  began  to  flit  from  shore  to  shore,  like  the 
sand-pipers,  which  we  kept  waking,  and  which 
we  pursued.  More  than  once  it  happened  that 
we  flew  down  upon  a  little  family  of  wild  ducks, 
disposed  in  a  circle  on  a  clear  spot  among  the 
reeds — but  they  did  not  stir;  perhaps  one  of  them 
would  hastily  take  its  head  out  from  under  its 
wing,  look  and  look,  and  then  anxiously  thrust 
its  bill  back  again  into  its  downy  feathers;  or 
another  would  quack  faintly,  its  whole  body  quiv- 
ering the  while.  We  frightened  one  heron;  it 
rose  out  of  a  willow  bush,  with  dangling  legs,  and 
flapped  its  wings  with  awkward  vigour;  it  really 
did  seem  to  me  then  to  resemble  a  German.  Not 
a  fish  splashed  anywhere— they,  too,  were  asleep. 
I  began  to  get  used  to  the  sensation  of  flying, 
and  even  found  a  certain  pleasure  in  it;  any  one 
who  has  chanced  to  fly  in  his  sleep  will  understand 
me.  I  took  to  watching  with  great  attention  the 
strange  being,  thanks  to  whom  such  improbable 
events  were  happening  to  me. 


13 


PHANTOMS 


VII 


She  was  a  woman  with  a  small,  non-Russian 
face.  Greyish-white,  semi-transparent,  with 
barely-defined  shadows,  it  reminded  one  of 
the  figures  on  an  alabaster  vase  illuminated 
from  within — and  again  it  seemed  to  be  familiar 
to  me. 

"  May  I  talk  with  thee?  "—I  said. 

"  Speak." 

"  I  see  that  thou  hast  a  ring  on  thy  finger;  so 
thou  hast  dwelt  on  earth — thou  hast  been  mar- 
ried? " 

I  paused.  .  .  .  There  was  no  reply. 

"  What  is  thy  name — or  what  was  thy  name, 
at  least? " 

"  Call  me  EUis." 

"  Ellis!  That  is  an  English  name?  Art  thou 
an  English  woman?  Thou  hast  known  me  be- 
fore?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  didst  thou  reveal  thyself  to  me  in  par- 
ticular? " 

"  I  love  thee." 

"  And  art  thou  content?  " 

"  Yes ;  we  are  floating,  we  are  circling,  you  and 
I,  through  the  pure  air." 

"  Ellis!  "—I  said  suddenly,—"  perchance  thou 
art  a  guilty,  a  damned  soul? " 

14 


PHANTOMS 

My  companion's  head  dropped.—"  I  do  not  un- 
derstand thee,"— she  whispered. 

"  I  adjure  thee,  in  God's  name  .  ..."  I  was 
beginning. 

"  What  art  thou  saying?  "—she  said  with  sur- 
prise.— "  I  do  not  understand." — It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  arm  which  lay  about  my  waist  hke  a 
girdle,  was  moving  gently.  .  .  . 

"  Fear  not,"— said  Ellis,—"  fear  not,  my  dear 
one!  " — Her  face  turned  and  moved  closer  to  my 
face.  ...  I  felt  on  my  lips  a  strange  sensation, 
like  the  touch  of  a  soft,  delicate  sting.  .  .  . 
Leeches  which  are  not  vicious  take  hold  in  that 
way. 

VIII 

I  GLANCED  downward.  We  had  again  managed 
to  rise  to  a  very  considerable  height.  We  were 
flying  over  a  county  capital  with  which  I  was 
unfamiliar,  situated  on  the  slope  of  a  broad  hill. 
The  churches  reared  themselves  amid  a  dark  mass 
of  wooden  roofs  and  fruit  orchards ;  a  long  bridge 
lowered  black  at  a  curve  in  the  river;  everything 
was  silent,  overwhelmed  with  sleep.  The  very 
domes  and  crosses  seemed  to  glitter  with  a  dumb 
gleam;  dumbly  the  tall  poles  of  the  wells  reared 
themselves  aloft  beside  the  round  clumps  of  wil- 
lows; the  whitish  highway  dumbly  plunged,  like 
a  narrow  dart,  into  one  end  of  the  town— and 

15 


PHANTOMS 

dumbly  emerged  from  the  other  side  upon  the 
gloomy  expanse  of  the  monotonous  fields. 

"  What  town  is  that?  "—I  queried. 

"  ***ofF,  in  the  ***  Government." 

"  ***oiF,  in  the  ***  Government?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  am  very  far  from  home !  " 

"  For  us  distance  is  nothing." 

"  Really?  "  Sudden  boldness  flashed  up  within 
me. — "  Then  carry  me  to  South  America!  " 

"  I  cannot  go  to  America.  It  is  day  there  now." 

"While  you  and  I  are  night  birds?  Well, 
somewhere  or  other,  only  as  far  off  as  possible." 

"  Close  thine  eyes  and  do  not  draw  breath," — 
replied  Ellis, — and  we  dashed  headlong  onward 
with  the  swiftness  of  the  whirlwind.  The  wind 
rushed  into  my  ears  with  a  crashing  noise. 

We  halted,  but  the  noise  did  not  cease.  On 
the  contrary,  it  had  become  converted  into  a  sort 
of  menacing  roar,  a  thunderous  din.  .  .  . 

"  Now  thou  mayest  open  thine  eyes,"— said 
Elhs. 

IX 

I  OBEYED.  .  .  .  My  God,  where  was  I? 

Overhead  were  heavy,  smoky  clouds ;  they  were 
crowding  together,  and  flying  like  a  herd  of 
vicious  monsters  ....  and  yonder,  below,  was 
another  monster:  the  raging,  just  that,— raging 

16 


PHANTOMS 

sea.  .  .  .  The  white  foam  was  glistening  convul- 
sively, and  seething  in  it  in  mounds, — and  rearing 
aloft  in  shaggy  billows,  it  was  pounding  with 
harsh  thunder  on  the  pitch-black  cliffs.  The  howl- 
ing of  the  storm,  the  icy  breath  of  the  heaving 
deep,  the  heavy  dashing  of  the  surf,  in  which,  at 
times,  one  seemed  to  hear  something  resembling 
howls,  the  distant  firing  of  cannon,  the  ringing 
of  bells,  the  torturing  shriek,  and  the  grinding 
of  the  pebbles  on  the  shore,  the  sudden  scream  of 
an  invisible  gull,  on  the  troubled  horizon  the 
reeling  remains  of  a  ship — everywhere  death, 
death  and  horror.  .  .  .  My  head  began  to  reel, 
and  swooning,  I  again  closed  my  eyes.  .  .  . 

"  What  is  this?    Where  are  we?  " 

"  On  the  southern  shore  of  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
in  front  of  the  Blackgang  Cliff,  where  ships  are 
so  frequently  dashed  to  pieces," — said  Ellis,  this 
time  with  peculiar  distinctness  and,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  not  without  malicious  joy.  .  .  . 

"  Take  me  away,  away  from  here.  .  .  .  home! 
Home!  " 

I  shrank  together  utterly,  I  clutched  my  face 
in  my  hands.  ...  I  felt  that  we  were  floating 
still  more  swiftly  than  before;  the  wind  no  longer 
howled  nor  whistled— it  shrieked  through  my 
hair,  in  my  garments. ...  I  gasped  for  breath.  .  .  . 

"  Now  stand  on  thy  feet,"— rang  out  the  voice 
of  Ellis. 

I  tried  to  control  myself,  my  consciousness. . . . 

17 


PHANTOMS 

I  felt  the  ground  under  foot,  but  heard  nothing, 
as  though  everything  round  about  had  died  .... 
only  the  blood  beat  irregularly  in  my  temples,  and 
my  head  still  reeled  with  a  faint,  internal  sound. 
I  straightened  myself  up  and  opened  my  eyes. 

X 

We  were  on  the  dam  of  my  pond.  Directly  in 
front  of  me,  athwart  the  pointed  leaves  of  the 
willows,  its  broad  expanse  was  visible  with  fila- 
ments of  feathery  mist  clinging  to  it  here  and 
there.  On  the  right  a  field  of  rye  glinted  dully; 
on  the  left  the  trees  of  the  garden  reared  them- 
selves aloft,  long,  motionless,  and  damp  in  ap- 
pearance. .  .  .  Morning  had  not  yet  breathed 
upon  them.  Across  the  sky  two  or  three  clouds 
were  stretched,  obliquely,  like  wreaths  of  smoke; 
they  seemed  yellowish,  and  the  first  faint  reflec- 
tion of  the  dawn  fell  on  them,  God  knows 
whence :  the  eye  could  not  yet  detect  on  the  whit- 
ening horizon  the  spot  from  which  it  must  be  bor- 
rowed. The  stars  had  disappeared;  nothing  was 
stirring  yet,  although  everything  was  already 
awake  in  the  enchanted  stillness  of  early  morn- 
ing. 

"  The  morning!  Yonder  is  the  morning!"— 
exclaimed  Ellis  in  my  very  ear.  .  .  .  "Farewell! 
until  to-morrow!  " 

I  turned.  .  .  .  Lightly  quitting  the  ground, 

18 


PHANTOMS 

she  floated  past, — and  suddenly  raised  both  arms 
above  her  head.  The  head,  and  the  arms,  and  the 
shoulders  instantly  flushed  with  warm,  corporeal 
light;  in  the  dark  eyes  quivered  living  sparks;  a 
smile  of  mysterious  delicacy  flitted  across  the  red- 
dening lips.  ...  A  charming  woman  suddenly 
made  her  appearance  before  me.  .  .  .  But  she  in- 
stantly threw  herself  backward,  as  though  falling 
into  a  swoon,  and  melted  away  like  vapour. 

I  stood  motionless. 

When  I  came  to  my  senses  and  looked  about 
me,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  corporeal,  pale-rosy 
flush  which  had  coursed  over  the  figure  of  my 
phantom  had  not  yet  vanished  and,  dispersed 
through  the  air,  was  flooding  me  on  all  sides.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  dawn  flushing  red.  I  suddenly  became 
conscious  of  extreme  fatigue  and  wended  my 
way  homeward.  As  I  passed  the  poultry-yard 
I  heard  the  first  matutinal  quacking  of  the  gos- 
lings (no  bird  wakes  earlier  than  they)  ;  along  the 
roof,  at  the  tip  of  each  projecting  stake,  perched 
a  daw;  and  all  of  them  were  diligently  and  si- 
lently pluming  themselves,  distinctly  outlined 
against  the  milky  sky.  From  time  to  time,  they 
all  rose  into  the  air  simultaneously  and,  after 
flying  about  a  little  while,  alighted  again  in  a 
row,  without  croaking.  .  .  .  From  the  forest 
near  at  hand  was  wafted,  twice,  the  hoarsely- 
fresh  cry  of  the  black-cock,  which  had  just  flown 
up   from   the   dewy   grass   all   overgrown   with 

19 


PHANTOMS 

berries.  .  .  .  With  a  light  shiver  all  over  my 
body,  I  gained  my  bed  and  speedily  sank  into  a 
sound  sleep. 

XI 

On  the  following  night,  when  I  began  to  draw 
near  to  the  ancient  oak,  Ellis  floated  to  meet  me, 
as  to  a  friend.  I  was  not  afraid  of  her  as  on  the 
preceding  day;  I  was  almost  delighted  to  see  her. 
I  did  not  even  attempt  to  understand  what  had 
happened  with  me:  all  I  cared  about  was  to  fly 
as  far  as  possible,  through  curious  places. 

Again  Ellis's  arm  was  wound  about  me — and 
again  we  darted  off. 

*'  Let  us  go  to  Italy," — I  whispered  in  her  ear. 

*'  Whithersoever  thou  wilt,  my  dear  one," — 
she  replied  solemnly  and  softly — and  softly  and 
solemnly  she  turned  her  face  toward  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  to  be  less  transparent  than  on  the 
day  before;  more  feminine  and  more  dignified; 
it  reminded  me  of  that  beautiful  creature  who 
had  flashed  before  my  vision  in  the  dawn  before 
our  parting. 

"  To-night  is  a  great  night,"— went  on  Ellis. 
—"It  rarely  comes,— only  when  seven  times  thir- 
teen .  .  .  ." 

At  this  point  I  lost  several  words. 

"  Now  that  can  be  seen  which  is  invisible  at 
other  times," 

20 


PHANTOMS 

"  Ellis!  "-I  pleaded,-"  who  art  thou?  Tell 
me!" 

She  silently  raised  her  long,  white  hand. 

In  the  dark  heaven,  at  the  point  to  which  her 
finger  pointed,  in  the  midst  of  tiny  stars,  a  comet 
gleamed  in  a  reddish  streak. 

"How  am  I  to  understand  thee?" — I  began. 
— "  Dost  thou  mean  that  thou  soarest  like  that 
comet,  between  the  planets  and  the  sun, — that 
thou  soarest  among  men  ....  and  how?" 

But  Ellis's  hand  was  suddenly  clapped  over  my 
eyes.  .  .  .  Something  akin  to  the  grey  mist  from 
a  damp  valley  enveloped  me.  .  .  . 

"  To  Italy!  to  Italy!  "—I  heard  her  whisper.— 
"  This  night  is  a  great  night!  " 

XII 

The  mist  disappeared  from  before  my  eyes,  and  I 
beheld  beneath  me  an  interminable  plain.  But 
I  was  able  to  understand,  from  the  very  touch  of 
the  warm,  soft  air  on  my  cheeks,  that  I  was  not 
in  Russia;  and  neither  did  that  plain  resemble 
our  Russian  plains.  It  was  a  vast,  dim  expanse, 
apparently  devoid  of  grass  and  empty;  here  and 
there,  throughout  its  entire  length,  gleamed  small 
stagnant  pools,  like  tiny  fragments  of  a  mirror; 
far  away  the  inaudible,  motionless  sea  was  visible 
Great  stars  glittered  in  the  intervals  between  the 
large,  beautiful  clouds;  a  thousand-voiced,  un- 

21 


PHANTOMS 

ceasing,  yet  not  clamorous  trill,  arose  in  all  direc- 
tions; and  wonderful  was  that  penetrating  and 
dreamy  rumble,  that  voice  of  the  nocturnal 
desert.  .  .  . 

"  The  Pontine  Marshes,"— said  Ellis.-"  Dost 
thou  hear  the  frogs  ?  Dost  thou  discern  the  odour 
of  sulphur? " 

"  The  Pontine  Marshes  .  ..."  I  repeated,  and 
a  sensation  of  majestic  sadness  took  possession 
of  me.  — "  But  why  hast  thou  brought  me  hither, 
to  this  mournful,  deserted  region  ?  Let  us  rather 
fly  to  Rome." 

"  Rome  is  close  at  hand,"— replied  Ellis.  .  .  . 
"Prepare  thyself!" 

We  descended  and  dashed  along  the  ancient 
Roman  road.  A  buffalo  slowly  raised  from  the 
ooze  his  shaggy,  monstrous  head  with  short 
whorls  of  bristles  between  the  crooked  horns 
which  curved  backward.  He  rolled  the  whites 
of  his  eyes  sideways,  and  snorted  heavily  with 
his  wet  nostrils,  as  though  he  scented  us. 

"  Rome,  Rome  is  near,"  ....  whispered 
Ellis.—"  Look,  look  ahead." 

I  raised  my  eyes. 

What  was  that  which  rose  darkly  against  the 
night  sky?  The  lofty  arches  of  a  huge  bridge? 
What  river  did  it  span?  Why  was  it  rent  in 
places?  No,  it  was  not  a  bridge,  it  was  an  ancient 
aqueduct.  Round  about  lay  the  sacred  land  of 
Campania,  and  yonder,  far  away,  were  the  Alban 

22 


PHANTOMS 

Hills ;  and  their  crests  and  the  great  back  of  the 
ancient  aqueduct  gleamed  faintlj^  in  the  rays  of 
the  moon  which  had  just  risen.  .  .  . 

We  suddenly  soared  upward  and  hung  sus- 
pended in  the  air  before  an  isolated  ruin.  No 
one  could  have  told  what  it  had  formerly  been: 
a  tomb,  a  palace,  a  tower.  .  .  .  Black  ivy  envel- 
oped the  whole  of  it  with  its  deadly  power — and 
below,  a  half -ruined  arch  yawned  like  jaws.  A 
heavy,  cellar-like  odour  was  wafted  in  my  face 
from  that  heap  of  small,  closely-packed  stones, 
from  which  the  granite  facing  of  the  wall  had 
long  since  fallen  off. 

"Here," — said  Ellis,  raising  her  hand; — 
"here! — Utter  loudly,  thrice  in  succession,  the 
name  of  a  great  Roman." 

"  But  what  will  happen?  " 

"  Thou  shalt  see." 

I  reflected. — "  Divus  Cajus  Julius  Caesar!  " — 
I  suddenly  exclaimed:  —  "Divus  Cajus  Julius 
Csesar!  "  I  repeated  slowly: — "  Ceesar!  " 

XIII 

Before  the  last  echoes  of  my  voice  had  had  time 
to  die  away  I  heard.  ... 

It  is  difficult  to  say  precisely  what.  At  first 
I  heard  a  confused  burst  of  trumpet  notes  and  of 
hand-clapping,  barely  perceptible  to  the  ear,  but 
endlessly  repeated.     It  seemed  as  though  some- 

23 


PHANTOMS 

where,  immensely  far  away,  in  some  bottomless 
abyss,  an  innumerable  throng  were  suddenly  be- 
ginning to  stir,  and  rise,  rise,  undulating  and 
exchanging  barely  audible  shouts,  as  though 
athwart  a  dream,  athwart  an  oppressive  di'eam 
many  ages  in  duration.  Then  the  air  began  to 
blow  and  darken  above  the  ruin.  .  .  .  Shadows 
began  to  flit  past  me,  myriads  of  shadows,  mil- 
lions of  outlines,  now  rounded  like  helmets,  now 
long  like  spears ;  the  rays  of  the  moon  were  shiv- 
ered into  many  bluish  sparks  on  these  spears  and 
helmets — and  the  whole  of  that  army,  that  throng, 
moved  nearer  and  nearer,  grew  greater,  surged 
mightily.  .  .  .  An  indescribable  effort,  a  tense 
effort  sufficient  to  lift  the  whole  world,  could 
be  felt  in  it ;  but  not  a  single  figure  stood  out  dis- 
tinctly. .  .  .  And  suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as 
though  a  tremor  ran  through  it  all,  as  though 
certain  huge  billows  had  surged  back  and  parted. 
.  .  .  .  "Caesar!  Caesar  venit!" — rustled  voices 
like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  upon  which  a  whirl- 
wind has  suddenly  descended  ....  a  dull  shock 
surged  along,  and  a  pallid,  stern  head  in  a  laurel 
wreath,  with  drooping  lids, — the  head  of  the  em- 
peror,—began  slowly  to  move  forward  from  the 
ruin.  .  .  . 

There  are  no  words  of  mortal  tongue  to  ex- 
press the  dread  which  gripped  my  heart.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  if  that  head  were  to  open  its 
eyes,  to  unseal  its  lips,  I  should  fall  dead  on  the 

24 


PHANTOMS 

spot.— "  Ellis!  " — I  moaned:—"!  do  not  wish 
it,  I  cannot,  I  do  not  want  Rome,  coarse,  menac- 
ing Rome.  .  .  .  Away,  away  from  here!  " — "  Pu- 
sillanimous! " — she  wliispered,  and  we  dashed 
headlong  away.  Once  more  I  heard  behind  me 
the  iron  shout  of  the  legions,  like  thunder  now 
....  then  all  grew  dark. 

XIV 

"  Look  about  thee,"— said  Elhs  to  me,—"  and 
calm  thyself." 

I  obeyed ;  and  I  remember  that  my  first  impres- 
sion was  so  sweet  that  I  could  only  heave  a  sigh. 
Something  smoky-blue,  silvery-soft  encompassed 
me  on  every  side.  At  first  I  could  distinguish 
nothing:  that  azure  splendour  blinded  me.  But 
lo!  little  by  little  the  outlines  of  beautiful  moun- 
tains and  forests  began  to  start  forth  before  me; 
a  lake  lay  outspread  before  me,  with  stars  quiv- 
ering in  its  depths,  and  the  caressing  murmur 
of  the  surge.  The  fragrance  of  orange-blossoms 
enveloped  me  in  a  billow,  and  along  with  it,  also 
in  a  billow,  as  it  were,  the  strong,  pure  tones  of 
a  youthful  feminine  voice  reached  my  ears.  That 
fragrance,  those  sounds,  fairly  drew  me  down- 
ward, and  I  began  to  descend  ....  to  descend 
to  a  luxurious  marble  palace,  which  gleamed 
white  and  in  friendlywise  amid  a  cypress  grove, 
The  sounds  were  welling  forth  from  its  wide- 

25 


PHANTOMS 

open  windows ;  the  waves  of  the  lake,  dotted  with 
a  dust  of  flowers,  plashed  against  its  walls— and 
directly  opposite,  all  clothed  in  the  dark-green 
of  orange-trees  and  laurels,  all  bathed  in  radiant 
mist,  all  studded  with  statues,  slender  columns, 
and  porticoes  of  temples,  a  circular  island  rose 
from  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  .  .  . 

"Isola  Bella!  "-said  Ellis.  .  .  .  "LagoMag- 
giore.  ..." 

I  articulated  only:  "Ah!"  and  continued  to 
descend.  The  feminine  voice  rang  out  ever  more 
loudly,  ever  more  clearly  in  the  palace;  I  was  ir- 
resistibly drawn  to  it.  ...  I  wanted  to  gaze  into 
the  face  of  the  songstress  who  was  warbling  such 
strains  on  such  a  night.  We  halted  in  front  of  a 
window. 

In  the  middle  of  a  room  decorated  in  Pom- 
peian  style,  and  more  resembling  an  ancient  tem- 
ple than  the  newest  sort  of  a  hall,  surrounded 
by  Greek  statues,  Etruscan  vases,  rare  plants, 
precious  stuffs,  and  lighted  from  above  by  the 
soft  rays  of  two  lamps  enclosed  in  crystal  globes, 
sat  a  young  woman  at  the  piano.  With  her  head 
thrown  slightly  backward,  and  her  eyes  half- 
closed  she  was  singing  an  Italian  aria;  she  was 
singing  and  smiling,  and,  at  the  same  time,  her 
features  were  expressive  of  seriousness,  even  of 
severity  ....  a  sign  of  complete  enjoyment. 
She  smiled  ....  and  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles, 
indolent,  as  young  as  she,   effeminate,  sensual 

26 


PHANTOMS 

also,  seemed  to  be  smiling  at  her  from  one  corner, 
from  behind  the  branches  of  an  oleander,  athwart 
the  thin  smoke  which  rose  from  a  bronze  per- 
f  uming-pan  upon  an  antique  tripod.  The  beauty- 
was  alone.  Enchanted  by  the  sounds,  the  beauty, 
the  glitter  and  perfume  of  the  night,  shaken  to 
the  very  depths  of  my  soul  by  the  spectacle  of  that 
young,  calm,  brilliant  happiness,  I  totally  for- 
got my  companion,  forgot  in  what  strange  wise 
I  had  become  a  witness  of  that  life  which  was  so 
distant,  so  remote,  so  strange  to  me— and  I 
wanted  to  step  through  the  window,  I  wanted  to 
enter  into  conversation.   .  .  . 

My  whole  body  quivered  from  a  forcible  blow 
—as  though  I  had  touched  a  Ley  den  jar.  I 
glanced  round.  .  .  .  Ellis's  face  was  gloomy  and 
menacing,  despite  all  its  transparency;  wrath 
glowed  dully  in  her  eyes,  which  had  suddenly 
been  opened  to  their  full  extent.  .  .  . 

"  Away!  "—she  whispered  furiously;  and 
again  there  was  the  whirlwind  and  gloom  and 
dizziness.  .  .  .  Only  this  time  it  was  not  the 
shout  of  the  legions,  but  the  voice  of  the  song- 
stress, broken  short  off  on  a  high  note,  which 
lingered  in  my  ears.  .  .  . 

We  halted.  A  high  note,  that  same  high  note, 
continued  to  ring  out  and  did  not  cease  to  re- 
sound, although  I  felt  an  entirely  different  air, 
a  different  odour.  .  .  .  Invigorating  freshness 
breathed  upon  me,  as  from  a  great  river,  and 

27 


PHANTOMS 

there  was  the  scent  of  hay,  of  smoke,  of  hemp. 
The  long-drawn  note  was  followed  by  a  second, 
then  by  a  third,  but  with  such  an  indubitable  shad- 
ing, such  a  familiar  turn  characteristic  of  my 
native  land,  that  I  immediately  said  to  myself: 
"  That  is  a  Russian  man  singing  a  Russian  song," 
—and  at  that  moment  everything  round  about  me 
grew  clear. 

XV 

We  found  ourselves  above  a  flat  shore.  On  the 
left,  stretched  out,  losing  themselves  in  infinity, 
lay  mowed  meadows,  dotted  with  huge  hay- 
stacks; on  the  right,  to  an  equally  unlimited  ex- 
tent, spread  out  the  level  expanse  of  a  vast  river 
abounding  in  water.  Not  far  from  the  shores 
huge,  dark  barges  were  rocking  quietly  at  an- 
chor, slightly  moving  the  tips  of  their  masts  like 
index-fingers.  From  one  of  these  barges  were 
wafted  to  me  the  sounds  of  a  flowing  voice,  and 
on  it  burned  lights,  quivering  and  rocking  in 
the  water  with  their  long,  red  reflections.  Here 
and  there  both  on  the  river  and  in  the  fields  twin- 
kled other  lights— the  eye  was  unable  to  discern 
whether  near  at  hand  or  far  away;  now  they 
blinked,  again  they  stood  forth  in  large,  radiant 
spots;  numberless  katydids  shrilled  ceaselessly— 
quite  equal  to  the  frogs  on  the  Pontine  Marshes ; 
and  beneath  the  cloudless,  but  low-hanging,  dark 

28 


PHANTOMS 

sky  invisible  birds  uttered  their  calls  from  time  to 
time. 

"  Are  we  in  Russia?  " — I  asked  Ellis. 

"This  is  the  Volga," — she  replied. 

We  soared  along  the  bank. — "  Why  hast  thou 
torn  me  thence,  from  that  beautiful  land?  " — I 
began. — "Wert  thou  envious,  pray?  Did  not 
jealousy  awake  in  thee?  " 

Ellis's  lips  quivered  faintly,  and  a  menace 
again  flashed  in  her  eyes.  .  .  .  But  her  whole 
face  immediately  grew  rigid  once  more. 

"  I  want  to  go  home," — I  said. 

"Wait,  wait,"-replied  Ellis.-"  To-night  is 
a  great  night.  It  will  not  soon  return.  Thou 
mayest  be  the  spectator.  .  .  .  Wait." 

And  suddenly  we  flew  across  the  Volga,  in  a 
slanting  direction,  close  above  the  water,  low  and 
abruptly,  like  swallows  before  a  storm.  The 
broad  waves  gurgled  heavily  below  us,  the  keen 
river  wind  beat  us  with  its  cold,  strong  wing  .... 
the  lofty  right  shore  soon  began  to  rise  before 
us  in  the  semi-darkness.  Steep  hills  with  great 
clefts  made  their  appearance.  We  approached 
them. 

"  Shout,  '  Tow-path  men  to  the  prow! '  "  Ellis 
whispered  to  me. 

I  remembered  the  dread  which  I  had  experi- 
enced at  the  appearance  of  the  Roman  spectres, 
I  felt  fatigue  and  a  certain  strange  anguish,  as 
though  my  heart  were  melting  within  me — and 

29 


PHANTOMS 

I  did  not  wish  to  utter  the  fateful  words.  I  knew 
beforeliand  that  in  reply  to  them  something  mon- 
strous would  appear,  like  Freischiitz,  in  the  Volga 
Valley. — But  my  lips  parted  against  my  will,  and 
I  shouted  in  a  weak,  strained  voice:  "  Tow-path 
men  to  the  prowl  "  ^ 

XVI 

At  first  all  remained  dumb,  as  before  the  Roman 
ruin. — But  suddenly  close  to  my  very  ear,  a 
coarse  bark-hauler's  ^  laugh  rang  out,  and  some- 
thing fell  with  a  bang  into  the  water  and  began 
to  choke.  ...  I  glanced  round :  no  one  was  any- 
where to  be  seen,  but  an  echo  rebounded  from 
the  shore,  and  instantly  and  from  all  quarters  a 
deafening  uproar  arose.  What  was  there  not  in 
that  chaos  of  sounds!  Shouts  and  whines;  vio- 
lent swearing  and  laughter,  laughter  most  of  all ; 
strokes  of  oars  and  of  axes ;  the  crash  as  of  break- 
ing in  doors  and  chests;  the  creaking  of  rigging 
and  wheels,  and  the  galloping  of  horses;  the 
sound  of  alarm-bells  and  the  clanking  of  chains; 
the  rumble  and  roar  of  conflagrations,  drunken 
songs  and  interchange  of  hurried  speech;  incon- 
solable, despairing  weeping,  and  imperious  ex- 

^  According  to  tradition,  this  was  the  war-cry  of  the  Volga  brigands 
when  they  captured  vessels. —Translator. 

2  Before  the  introduction  of  steamers  on  the  Volga,  all  vessels  were 
hauled  up-stream  from  Astrakhan  to  Nizhni-Novgorod— or  even  fur- 
ther—by men  walking  along  the  tow-paths  on  the  shore. —Translator. 

80 


PHANTOMS 

clamations;  the  death-rattle,  and  audacious  whis- 
tHng ;  the  yelling  and  trampling  of  the  dance.  .  .  . 
"Beat!  Hang!  Drown!  Cut  his  throat!  That's 
fine!  That  's  fine!  So!  Show  no  pity!  "—were 
distinctly  audible;  even  the  broken  breathing  of 
panting  men  was  audible;— and  nevertheless, 
everywhere  round  about,  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see,  nothing  came  into  sight,  nothing  underwent 
any  change.  The  river  flowed  past  mysteriously, 
almost  morosely;  the  very  shore  seemed  more  de- 
serted and  wild  than  before— that  was  all. 

I  turned  to  Ellis,  but  she  laid  her  finger  on  her 
lips.  .  .  . 

"  Stepan  TimofeitchI  Stepan  Timofeitch  is 
coming!  " — arose  a  rustling  round  about; — "  our 
dear  little  father  is  coming,  our  ataman,  our 
nourisher!  "—As  before,  I  saw  no  one,  but  it 
suddenly  seemed  to  me  as  though  a  huge  body 
were  moving  straight  at  me.  ..."  Frolka! 
Where  art  thou,  dog?  " — thundered  a  terrible 
voice. — "  Set  fire  on  all  sides — and  put  them 
under  the  axe,  my  little  White-hands!  "  ^ 

The  heat  of  a  flame  close  at  hand  breathed 
upon  me,  and  the  bitter  reek  of  smoke, — and  at 
the  same  moment  something  warm,  like  blood, 
spattered  upon  my  face  and  hands.  .  .  .  Wild 
laughter  roared  round  about.  .  .  . 

^The  bandit  chief,  generally  known  in  history  as  Stenka  Rdzin 
and  Frol  or  Frdlka,  his  younger  brother  and  inseparable  companion, 
captured  and  laid  waste  great  stretches  of  the  Volga.  Their  mem- 
ory still  lives  in  epic  ballads  and  among  the  peasants.— Translator. 

31 


PHANTOMS 

I  lost  consciousness,  and  when  I  recovered  my 
senses,  Ellis  and  I  were  slipping  along  the  famil- 
iar verge  of  my  forest,  straight  toward  the  old 
oak-tree.  .  .  . 

"  Seest  thou  yonder  path?  "—Ellis  said  to  me, 
— "  yonder  where  the  moon  is  shining  dimly  and 
two  small  birch-trees  are  bending  over?  .  .  .  Dost 
thou  wish  to  go  thither?  " 

But  I  felt  so  shattered  and  exhausted,  that  in 
reply  I  could  say  only :— "  Home home! " 

"  Thou  art  at  home,"— answered  Ellis. 

In  fact,  I  was  standing  in  front  of  the  door  of 
my  house— alone.  Elhs  had  vanished.  The 
watch-dog  was  about  to  approach,  glared  suspi- 
ciously at  me— and  fled  howling. 

With  difficulty  I  dragged  myself  to  my  bed, 
and  fell  asleep,  without  undressing. 

XVII 

On  the  following  morning  I  had  a  headache,  and 
could  hardly  move  my  feet;  but  I  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  my  bodily  indisposition.  I  was  gnawed 
by  penitence,  stifled  with  vexation. 

I  was  extremely  displeased  with  myself.  "  Pu- 
sillanimous! "—I  kept  repeating  incessantly:— 
"  Yes— Ellis  is  right.  What  did  I  fear?  How 
could  I  fail  to  profit  by  the  opportunity?  .... 
I  might  have  beheld  Caesar  himself — and  I 
swooned  with  terror,  I  squealed,  I  turned  away, 

32 


PHANTOMS 

like  a  child  from  the  rod.  Well,  Razin— that  is 
quite  a  different  matter.  In  my  quality  of  noble- 
man and  land-owner  ....  However,  what  was 
the  actual  cause  of  my  fright  in  that  case  also? 
Pusillanimous,  pusillanimous!"  .... 

/'  But  is  it  not  in  a  dream  that  I  am  seeing  all 
this?" — I  asked  myself  at  last.  I  called  my 
housekeeper. 

"  INIarfa,  at  what  time  did  I  go  to  bed  last 
night?— dost  thou  remember?  " 

"  Why,  who  knows,  my  benefactor.  .  .  .  Late, 
I  think.  In  the  gloaming  thou  didst  leave  the 
house;  and  thou  were  clattering  thy  heels  in  thy 
bedroom  after  midnight.  Just  before  dawn— 
yes.  And  this  is  the  third  day  it  has  been  like 
that.  Evidently,  something  has  happened  to 
worry  thee." 

"Ehe-he!"— I  thought.— "  There  can  be  no 
doubt  as  to  the  flying."—"  Well,  and  how  do  I 
look  to-day?  "—I  added  aloud. 

"  How  dost  thou  look?  Let  me  look  at  thee. 
Thy  cheeks  are  somewhat  sunken.  And  thou  art 
pale,  my  nourisher;  there  now,  there  is  n't  a  drop 
of  blood  in  thy  face." 

I  winced  slightly.  ...  I  dismissed  Marfa. 

"  If  thou  goest  on  like  this  thou  wilt  surely  die 
or  lose  thy  mind,"— I  reasoned,  as  I  sat  meditat- 
ing by  the  window.  "  I  must  abandon  all  this. 
It  is  dangerous.  And,  here  now,  how  strangely 
my  heart  is  beating!    And  when  I  am  flying,  it 

33 


PHANTOMS 

constantly  seems  to  me  as  though  some  one  were 
sucking  it,  or  as  though  something  were  seeping 
out  of  it— like  the  spring  sap  from  a  birch,  if  you 
thrust  an  axe  into  it.  And  yet  I  feel  sorry.  And 
there  is  Ellis.  .  .  .  She  is  playing  with  me  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse  ....  but  it  is  unlikely 
that  she  wishes  any  evil  to  me.  I  '11  surrender 
myself  to  her  for  the  last  time— I  '11  gaze  my  fill 
—and  then.  .  .  .  But  what  if  she  is  drinking  my 
blood?  This  is  terrible.  Moreover,  such  swift 
motion  cannot  fail  to  be  injurious;  they  say  that 
on  the  railways  in  England  it  is  forbidden  to  go 
more  than  one  hundred  and  twenty  versts  an 
hour.  .  .  ." 

Thus  did  I  meditate— but  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
evening  I  was  already  standing  before  the  aged 
oak. 

XVIII 

The  night  was  cold,  dim,  and  grey;  there  was  a 
scent  of  rain  in  the  air.  To  my  surprise,  I  found 
no  one  under  the  oak;  I  made  the  circuit  of  it 
several  times,  walked  as  far  as  the  verge  of  the 
forest,  and  returned,  staring  assiduously  into  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  Everything  was  deserted.  I 
waited  a  while,  then  uttered  Ellis's  name  several 
times  in  succession,  with  ever-increasing  loud- 
ness ....  but  she  did  not  show  herself.  I  was 
seized  with  sadness,  almost  with  anguish ;  my  f or- 

34 


PHANTOMS 

mer  apprehensions  vanished ;  I  could  not  reconcile 
myself  to  the  thought  that  my  companion  would 
never  return  to  me. 

"Ellis!  EUis!  Do  come!  Wilt  thou  not 
come?  " — I  shouted  for  the  last  time. 

A  crow  which  had  been  awakened  by  my  voice 
suddenly  began  to  fidget  about  in  the  crest  of  a 
neighbouring  tree,  and  becoming  entangled  in 
the  branches,  set  to  flapping  its  wings.  .  .  .  But 
Ellis  did  not  appear. 

With  drooping  head  I  wended  my  way  home- 
ward. Ahead  of  me  the  willows  on  the  dam  stood 
out  in  a  black  mass,  and  the  light  in  the  window 
of  my  room  twinkled  among  the  apple-trees  of 
the  garden, — twinkled  and  vanished,  like  the  eye 
of  a  man  watching  me, — when  suddenly  the  faint 
swish  of  swiftly-cloven  air  became  audible  be- 
hind me,  and  something  with  one  swoop  embraced 
and  seized  hold  of  me  from  below  upward :  that  is 
the  way  a  buzzard  seizes,  "  smashes  "  a  quail.  .  .  . 
It  was  Ellis  who  had  flown  upon  me.  I  felt  her 
cheek  on  my  cheek,  the  girdle  of  her  arms  around 
my  body — and  like  a  keen  chill  the  whisper  of  her 
mouth  pierced  my  ear:  "  Here  am  I!  "  I  was  si- 
multaneously alarmed  and  delighted.  .  .  .  We 
floated  ofl"  not  far  above  the  ground. 

"  Thou  didst  not  mean  to  come  to-day? " — I 
said. 

"  But  thou  didst  languish  for  me!  Thou  lovest 
me?    Oh,  thou  art  mine!  " 

35 


PHANTOMS 

Ellis's  last  words  disconcerted  me.  ...  I  did 
not  know  what  to  say. 

"  I  was  detained,"— she  went  on; — "  they  set  a 
guard  over  me." 

"  Who  could  detain  thee?  " 

*'  Whither  dost  thou  wish  to  go?  "—queried 
Ellis,  not  replying  to  my  question,  as  usual. 

*'  Carry  me  to  Italy,  to  that  lake — dost  thou 
remember?  " 

Ellis  drew  back  a  little  and  shook  her  head  in 
negation.  Then  for  the  first  time  did  I  perceive 
that  she  had  ceased  to  be  transparent.  And  her 
face  seemed  to  have  grown  rosy;  a  crimson  flush 
spread  over  its  cloudy  whiteness.  I  looked  into 
her  eyes  ....  and  dread  came  upon  me:  in 
those  eyes  something  was  moving — with  the 
slow,  unceasing  and  vicious  motion  of  a  serpent 
which  has  coiled  itself  and,  congealed  in  that 
position,  is  beginning  to  grow  warm  in  the 
sunshine. 

"  Ellis!  "-I  exclaimed:-"  Who  art  thou? 
Tell  me,  who  art  thou?  " 

Ellis  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

I  was  vexed.  ...  I  wanted  to  punish  her; — 
and  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  to  order  her  to 
carry  me  to  Paris.  "  That 's  where  thou  wilt  have 
occasion  for  jealousy," — I  thought. — "Ellis!" 
—  I  said  aloud; — "thou  art  not  afraid  of  large 
cities,  Paris,  for  example,  art  thou? " 

"  No.'* 

36 


PHANTOMS 


ti 


No?  Not  even  of  those  places  where  it  is 
bright,  as  on  the  boulevards?  " 

"  That  is  not  the  light  of  day." 

"  Very  good;  then  carry  me  immediately  to  the 
Boulevard  des  Italiens." 

Ellis  tlu-ew  over  my  head  the  end  of  her  long, 
flowing  sleeve.  I  was  immediately  enveloped  in 
a  sort  of  white  mist,  with  a  soporific  scent  of 
poppies.  Everything  disappeared  instantane- 
ously; all  light,  all  sound — and  almost  conscious- 
ness itself.  The  sensation  of  life  alone  remained 
— and  it  was  not  unpleasant.  Suddenly  the  mist 
vanished;  Ellis  had  removed  her  sleeve  from  my 
head,  and  I  beheld  before  me  a  huge  mass  of 
buildings  crowded  together,  brilliancy,  move- 
ment, din.  ...  I  beheld  Paris. 

XIX 

I  HAD  been  in  Paris  before,  and  therefore  imme- 
diately recognised  the  spot  to  whicli  Ellis  had 
shaped  her  coiu'se.  It  was  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries,  with  its  aged  chestnut-trees,  iron 
fences,  fortress-moat,  and  beast-like  Zouaves  on 
guard.  Passing  the  palace,  passing  the  Church 
of  St.  Roch,  on  whose  steps  the  first  Napoleon 
shed  Frencli  blood  for  the  first  time,  we  halted 
high  above  tlie  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  where  the 
third  Napoleon  did  the  same  thing,  and  with 
equal  success.    Crowds  of  people — young  and  old 

37 


PHANTOMS 

dandies,  workmen,  women  in  sumptuous  attire — 
were  thronging  the  sidewalks;  the  gilded  restau- 
rants and  cafes  were  blazing  with  lights,  car- 
riages of  all  sorts  and  aspects  were  driving  up 
and  down  the  boulevard;  everything  was  fairly 
seething  and  glittering,  in  every  direction,  where- 
ever  the  eye  fell.  .  .  .  But,  strange  to  say,  I  did 
not  feel  like  quitting  my  pure,  dark,  airy  height ; 
I  did  not  wish  to  approach  that  human  ant-hill. 
It  seemed  as  though  a  hot,  oppressive,  copper- 
coloured  exhalation  rose  up  thence,  not  precisely 
fragrant,  nor  yet  precisely  stinking ;  a  very  great 
deal  of  life  had  been  collected  there  in  one  heap. 
I  wavered.  .  .  .  But  now  the  voice  of  a  street- 
courtesan,  sharp  as  the  screech  of  iron  rails,  sud- 
denly was  wafted  to  my  ear;  like  a  naked  blade 
it  thrust  itself  out  upward,  that  voice;  it  stung 
me  like  the  fangs  of  a  viper.  I  immediately  pic- 
tured to  myself  the  stony,  greedy,  flat  Parisian 
face,  with  high  cheek-bones,  the  eyes  of  a  usurer, 
rouge,  powder,  curled  hair,  and  a  bouquet  of 
bright-hued  artificial  flowers  on  the  high-peaked 
hat,  the  scraped  nails  in  the  shape  of  claws,  the 
monstrous  crinoline.  ...  I  pictured  to  myself 
also  a  steppe-dweller  like  myself  pursuing  the 
venal  doll  with  detestable  tripping  gait.  ...  I 
pictured  to  myself  how,  confused  to  the  point  of 
rudeness,  and  lisping  with  his  efforts,  he  en- 
deavours to  imitate  in  his  manners  the  waiters  at 
Vefour's,  squeals,  keeps  on  the  alert,  wheedles — 

38 


PHANTOMS 

and  a  feeling  of  loathing  took  possession  of  me. 
.  .  .  .  "No,"— I  thought,— "Ellis  will  have  no 
occasion  to  feel  jealous  here.  ..." 

In  the  meantime,  I  noticed  that  we  were  begin- 
ning gradually  to  descend.  .  .  .  Paris  rose  to 
meet  us  with  all  its  din  and  reek.  .  .  . 

"  Halt!  "—I  turned  to  Elhs.— "  Dost  thou  not 
find  it  stifling  here,  oppressive?  " 

"  It  was  thou  thyself  who  asked  me  to  bring 
thee  hither." 

"  I  was  wrong,  I  recall  my  word.  Carry  me 
away,  Ellis,  I  entreat  thee.  Just  as  I  thought: 
yonder  goes  Prince  KulmametofF,  hobbling  along 
the  boulevard ;  and  his  friend  Baraksin  is  waving 
his  hand  at  him  and  crying:  '  Ivan  Stepanitch, 
allons  souper,  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  engage 
Rigolbosch  itself ! '  Carry  me  away  from  these 
Mabilles  and  Maisons  Dores,  away  from  fops, 
both  male  and  female,  from  the  Jockey  Club  and 
Figaro,  from  the  closely-clipped  soldiers'  heads 
and  the  polished  barracks,  from  the  sergents  de 
ville  with  their  goatees  and  the  glasses  of  turbid 
absinthe,  from  the  players  of  domino  in  the  cafes 
and  the  gamblers  on  'Change,  from  the  bits  of  red 
ribbon  in  the  buttonhole  of  the  coat  and  the 
buttonhole  of  the  overcoat,  from  Monsieur  de 
Foi,  the  inventor  of  '  the  speciality  of  wed- 
dings,' and  from  the  free  consultations  of  Dr. 
Charles  Albert,  from  liberal  lectures  and  govern- 
mental pamphlets,  from  Parisian  comedies  and 

39 


PHANTOMS 

Parisian  operas  and  Parisian  ignorance.  .  .  . 
Away !    Away !    Away !  " 

"Look  down," — Ellis  answered  me: — "thou 
art  no  longer  over  Paris." 

I  lowered  my  eyes.  ...  It  was  a  fact.  A  dark 
plain,  here  and  there  intersected  by  whitish  lines 
of  roads,  was  running  swiftly  past  beneath  us, 
and  only  behind,  on  the  horizon,  like  the  glow 
of  a  huge  conflagration,  the  reflection  of  the  in- 
numerable lights  of  the  world's  capital  throbbed 
upward. 

XX 

Again  a  veil  fell  across  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Again  I 
lost  consciousness.     It  dispersed  at  last. 

What  was  that  yonder,  below?  What  park 
was  that  with  avenues  of  clipped  lindens,  isolated 
spruce-trees  in  the  form  of  parasols,  with  porti- 
coes and  temples  in  the  Pompadour  taste,  and 
statues  of  nymphs  and  satyrs  of  the  Bernini 
school,  and  rococo  Tritons  in  the  centre  of  curv- 
ing ponds,  rimmed  by  low  balustrades  of  black- 
ened marble?  Is  it  not  Versailles?  No,  it  is  not 
Versailles.  A  small  palace,  also  in  rococo  style, 
peers  forth  from  clumps  of  curly  oak-trees.  The 
moon  shines  dimly,  enveloped  in  a  haze,  and  an 
extremely  delicate  smoke  seems  to  be  spread  over 
the  earth.  The  eye  cannot  distinguish  what  it  is : 
moonlight  or  fog.     Yonder  on  one  of  the  ponds 

40 


PHANTOMS 

a  swan  is  sleeping;  its  long  back  gleams  white, 
like  the  snow  of  the  steppes  gripped  by  the  frost, 
and  yonder  the  glow-worms  are  burning  like  dia- 
monds in  the  bluish  shadow  at  the  foot  of  the 
statues. 

"  We  are  close  to  Mannheim," — said  Ellis. — 
^'  That  is  the  Schwetzingen  Park." 

"  So  we  are  in  Germany," — I  thought,  and  be- 
gan to  listen.  Everything  was  dumb;  only 
somewhere  a  slender  stream  of  falling  water  was 
plashing  and  babbling,  isolated  and  invisible.  It 
seemed  to  be  repeating  the  same  words  over  and 
over  again:  "  Yes,  yes,  j^es,"  always  "  yes."  And 
suddenly  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  in  the  very 
middle  of  one  of  the  avenues,  between  the  walls 
of  shorn  greenery,  affectedly  offering  his  arm 
to  a  lady  in  powdered  coiffure  and  a  gay-coloured 
farthingale,  there  stepped  forth  on  his  red  heels 
a  cavalier  in  a  golden  coat  and  lace  cuffs,  with 
a  light,  steel  sword  on  his  hip.  .  .  .  They  were 
strange,  pale  figures.  ...  I  wanted  to  get  a 
look  at  them.  .  .  .  But  everything  had  van- 
ished, and  only  the  water  babbled  on  as  before. 

"  Those  are  dreams  roaming  abroad," — whis- 
pered Ellis.  — "  Yesterday  a  great  deal  might 
have  been  seen — a  great  deal.  To-day  even 
dreams  slmn  the  eye  of  mortal  man.    On!    On!  " 

We  soared  upward  and  flew  further.  So 
smooth  and  even  was  our  flight  tliat  we  did  not 
seem  to  be  moving,  but  eveiything,  on  the  con- 

41 


PHANTOMS 

trary,  appeared  to  be  coming  toward  us.  Moun- 
tains made  their  appearance,  dark,  undulating, 
covered  with  forests ;  they  augmented  and  floated 
toward  us.  .  .  .  Now  they  are  already  flowing 
past  beneath  us,  with  all  their  sinuosities,  ravines, 
narrow  meadows,  with  the  fiery  points  in  the 
slumbering  villages  along  the  swift  rivers  at  the 
bottom  of  the  valleys ;  and  ahead  of  us  again  other 
mountains  loom  up  and  float  past.  .  .  .  We  are 
in  the  heart  of  the  Schwarzwald. 

Mountains,  nothing  but  mountains  ....  and 
forest,  the  splendid,  old,  mighty  forest.  The 
night  sky  is  clear;  I  can  recognise  every  variety 
of  tree;  especially  magnificent  are  the  firs  with 
their  straight,  white  trunks.  Here  and  there  on 
the  borders  of  the  forests  chamois  are  to  be  seen ; 
stately  and  alert  they  stand  on  their  slender  legs 
and  listen,  with  their  heads  finely  turned,  and 
their  large,  trumpet-shaped  ears  pricked  up.  The 
ruin  of  a  tower  sadly  and  blindly  displays  on  a 
peak  of  naked  crag  its  half -demolished  battle- 
ments; above  the  ancient,  forgotten  stones  a 
golden  star  glows  peacefully.  From  a  small,  al- 
most black  lake,  the  moaning  croak  of  tiny  frogs 
rises  up  like  a  wail.  I  seem  to  hear  other  sounds, 
long,  languid,  like  the  sounds  of  a  golden  harp. 
....  Here  it  is,  the  land  of  legend !  That  same  deli- 
cate shimmer  of  moonlight  which  had  impressed 
me  at  Schwetzingen  is  here  disseminated  every- 
where, and  the  further  the  mountains  stand  apart 

42 


PHANTOMS 

the  thicker  does  that  smoke  become.  I  distinguish 
five,  six,  ten,  different  tones  of  the  different 
layers  of  shadow  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains, 
and  over  the  silent  diversity  pensively  reigns  the 
moon.  The  air  ripples  on  softly  and  lightly.  I 
feel  at  ease  and  in  a  mood  of  lofty  composure  and 
melancholy  as  it  were 

"  Ellis,  thou  must  love  this  land!  " 

"  I  love  nothing." 

"  How  is  that?    And  how  about  me?  " 

"  Yes  ....  thee!  "—she  replies  indifferently. 

It  strikes  me  that  her  arm  clasps  my  waist  more 
closely  than  before. 

"On!  On!"— says  Ellis,  with  a  sort  of  cold 
enthusiasm. 

"On!"- 1  repeat. 

XXI 

A  MIGHTY  fluctuating,  ringing  cry  suddenly  re- 
sounded overhead  and  was  immediately  repeated 
a  little  way  in  advance. 

"  Those  are  belated  cranes  flying  to  your  land, 
to  the  north,"— said  Ellis:— "  wouldst  thou  like 
to  join  them? " 

"  Yes,  yes!  raise  me  to  them." 

We  soared  upward  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  found  ourselves  alongside  of  the  flock  which 
had  flown  past. 

The  huge,  handsome  birds  (there  were  thirty 

43 


PHANTOMS 

of  them  in  all)  were  flying  in  a  wedge  form  ab- 
ruptly and  rarely  flapping  their  inflated  wings. 
With  head  and  legs  intently  ahead  and  breast 
thrust  sternly  forward,  they  were  forging  on- 
ward, and  that  so  swiftly  that  the  air  whistled 
around  them.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  such  hot, 
strong  hf  e,  such  unflinching  will,  at  such  a  height, 
at  such  a  distance  from  all  living  things.  With- 
out ceasing  triumphantly  to  plough  their  way 
through  space  the  cranes  exchanged  calls,  from 
time  to  time,  with  their  comrades  in  the  van- 
guard, with  their  leader ;  and  there  was  something 
proud,  dignified,  something  invincibly  confident 
in  those  loud  cries,  in  the  conversation  under  the 
clouds.  "  We  shall  fly  to  our  goal,  never  fear, 
however  difficult  it  may  be,"  they  seemed  to  be 
saying,  encouraging  one  another. 

And  at  this  point  it  occurred  to  me  that 
there  are  very  few  people  in  Russia — why  do  I 
sa}"  in  Russia? — in  the  whole  world— like  those 
birds. 

"  We  are  now  flying  to  Russia," — said  Ellis. 
This  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  noticed  that  she 
almost  always  knew  what  I  was  thinking  about. — 
"  Dost  thou  wish  to  return?  " 

"  Let  us  return  ....  or,  no !  I  liave  been  in 
Paris;  take  me  to  Petersburg." 

"Now?" 

"  This  instant.  .  .  .  Only  cover  my  head  with 
thy  veil  or  I  shall  become  dizzy." 

44 


PHANTOMS 

Ellis  raised  her  arm  ....  but  before  the  mist 
enveloped  me  I  felt  on  my  lips  the  touch  of  that 
soft,  dull  sting.  .  .  . 

•  XXII 

*^  At-te-e-e-e-ention  !  " — a  prolonged  cry  re- 
sounded in  my  ears.  "  At-te-e-e-e-ention !  "  came 
the  response,  as  though  in  despair,  from  the  dis- 
tance. "At-te-e-e-e-ention!"  died  away  some- 
where at  the  end  of  the  world.  I  started.  A  lofty 
golden  spire  met  my  eye :  I  recognised  the  Peter- 
Paul  Fortress. 

A  pale,  northern  night!  Yes,  but  was  it  night? 
Was  it  not  a  pale,  ailing  day?  I  have  never  liked 
the  Petersburg  nights;  but  this  time  I  was  even 
terrified:  Ellis's  form  disappeared  entirely, 
melted  like  the  mist  of  morning  in  the  July  sun, 
and  I  clearly  descried  her  whole  body  as  it  hung 
heavily  and  alone  on  a  level  with  the  Alexander 
column.  So  this  was  Petersburg!  Yes,  it  really 
was.  Those  broad,  empty,  grey  streets;  those 
greyish-white,  yellowish-grey,  greyish-lilac,  stuc- 
coed and  peeling  houses  with  their  sunken  win? 
dows,  brilliant  sign-boards,  iron  pavilions  over 
their  porches,  and  nasty  little  vegetable-shops; 
those  facades;  those  inscriptions,  sentry-boxes, 
watering-troughs;  the  golden  cap  of  St.  Isaac's 
Cathedral;  the  useless,  motley  Exchange;  the 
granite   walls   of   the   fortress   and   the   broken 

45 


PHANTOMS 

wooden  pavement ;  those  barks  laden  with  hay  and 
firewood;  that  odour  of  dust,  cabbage,  bast-mat- 
ting and  stables;  those  petrified  yard-porters  in 
sheepskin  coats  at  the  gates,  those  cab-drivers 
curled  up  in  death-like  sleep  on  their  rickety 
carriages, — yes,  it  was  she,  our  Northern  Pal- 
myra. Everything  was  visible  round  about; 
everything  was  clear,  painfully  clear  and  distinct ; 
everything  was  sleeping  mournfully,  strangely 
heaped  up  and  outlined  in  the  dimly-transparent 
air.  The  glow  of  sunset — a  consumptive  glow — 
has  not  yet  departed,  and  will  not  depart  until 
morning  from  the  white,  starless  sky.  It  lies  on 
the  silky  surface  of  the  Neva,  and  the  river  barely 
murmurs  and  barely  undulates  as  it  hastens  on' 
ward  its  cold,  blue  waters.  . . . 

"  Let  us  fly  away,"— pleaded  Ellis. 

And,  without  awaiting  my  answer,  she  bore  me 
across  the  Neva,  across  the  Palace  Square,  to  the 
Liteinaya.  Footsteps  and  voices  were  audible  be- 
low :  along  the  street  a  cluster  of  young  men  were 
walking  with  drink-sodden  faces  and  discussing 
dancing-classes.  "  Sub-lieutenant  StolpakofF  the 
seventh!  "  suddenly  cried  out  in  his  sleep  a  soldier, 
who  was  standing  on  guard  at  the  pyramid  of 
rusty  cannon-balls,^  and  a  httle  further  on,  at  the 
open  window  of  a  tall  house  I  caught  sight  of  a 
young  girl  in  a  crumpled  silk  gown  without 
sleeves,  with  a  pearl  net  on  her  hair  and  a  ciga- 

*  At  the  Artillery  Barracks. — Translator. 

46 


PHANTOMS 

rette  in  her  mouth.  She  was  devoutly  perusing  a 
book:  it  was  the  work  of  one  of  the  most  recent 
Juvenals. 

"  Let  us  fly  on!  "—I  said  to  Ellis. 

A  minute  more,  and  the  little  forests  of  decay- 
ing spruce-trees  and  mossy  swamps  which  sur- 
round Petersburg  were  flitting  past  us.  We 
directed  our  course  straight  for  the  south ;  sky  and 
earth  gradually  grew  darker  and  darker.  The 
diseased  night,  the  diseased  day,  the  diseased  city 
— all  were  left  behind. 

XXIII 

We  flew  more  slowly  than  usual,  and  I  was  able  to 
watch  how  the  broad  expanse  of  my  native  land 
unrolled  before  me  like  a  series  of  interminable 
panoramas.  Forests,  bushes,  fields,  ravines,  riv- 
ers— now  and  then  villages  and  churches — and 
then  again  fields,  and  forests,  and  bushes,  and  ra- 
vines. ...  I  grew  melancholy, — and  melancholy  in 
an  indifferent  sort  of  way,  somehow.  And  I 
was  not  melancholy  and  bored  because  we  were 
flying  over  Russia  in  particular.  No !  The  land 
itself,  that  flat  surface  which  spread  out  beneath 
me;  the  whole  earthly  globe  with  its  inhabitants, 
transitory,  impotent,  crushed  by  want,  by  sorrow, 
by  diseases,  fettered  to  a  clod  of  contemptible 
earth;  that  rough,  brittle  crust,  that  excrescence 
on  the  fiery  grain  of  sand  of  our  planet,  on  which 

47 


PHANTOMS 

has  broken  out  a  mould  dignified  by  us  with  the 
appellation  of  the  organic,  vegetable  kingdom; 
those  men-flies,  a  thousand  times  more  insignifi- 
cant than  flies;  their  huts  stuck  together  out  of 
mud,  the  tiny  traces  of  their  petty,  monotonous 
pother,  their  amusing  struggles  with  the  un- 
changeable and  the  inevitable, — how  loathsome 
all  this  suddenly  became  to  me !  My  heart  slowly 
grew  nauseated,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  gaze  any 
longer  at  those  insignificant  pictures,  at  that  stale 
exhibition. . .  Yes,  I  felt  bored — worse  than  bored. 
I  did  not  even  feel  compassion  for  my  fellow- 
men  :  all  emotions  within  me  were  drowned  in  one 
which  I  hardly  venture  to  name:  in  a  feeling  of 
aversion;  and  that  aversion  was  strongest  of  all 
and  most  of  all  toward  myself. 

"  Stop,"  — whispered  Ellis:  —  "  Stop,  or  I  will 
not  carry  thee.    Thou  art  becoming  heavy." 

"  Go  home." — I  replied  in  the  same  sort  of  a 
tone  with  which  I  was  accustomed  to  utter  those 
words  to  my  coachman  on  emerging,  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  from  the  houses  of  my 
Moscow  friends  with  whom  I  had  been  discussing 
the  future  of  Russia  and  the  significance  of  the 
commune  ever  since  dinner.  —  "  Go  home," — I  re- 
peated, and  closed  my  eyes. 


48 


PHANTOMS 


XXIV 


But  I  speedily  opened  them  again.  Ellis  was 
pressing  against  me  in  a  strange  sort  of  way ;  she 
was  almost  pushing  me.  I  looked  at  her,  and  the 
blood  curdled  in  my  veins.  Any  one  who  has 
chanced  to  behold  on  the  face  of  another  a  sudden 
expression  of  profound  terror  the  cause  of  which 
he  does  not  suspect,  will  understand  me.  Terror, 
harassing  terror,  contorted,  distorted  the  pale, 
almost  obliterated  features  of  Ellis.  I  have  never 
beheld  anything  like  it  even  on  a  living  human 
face.  A  lifeless,  shadowy  phantom,  a  shadow 
and  that  swooning  terror  .... 

"  Ellis,  what  ails  thee?  " — I  said  at  last. 

"  'T  is  she  ....  't  is  she "  she  replied  with 

an  effort;-" 'tis  she!" 

"She?    Who  is  she?" 

"  Do  not  name  her,  do  not  name  her," — hur- 
riedly stammered  Ellis.  —  "  We  must  flee,  or  there 
will  be  an  end  to  all — and  forever.  .  .  .  Look: 
yonder ! " 

I  turned  my  head  in  the  direction  which  she  in- 
dicated to  me  with  trembling  hand, — and  saw 
something  ....  something  really  frightful. 

This  something  was  all  the  more  frightful  be- 
cause it  had  no  definite  form.  Something  heavy, 
gloomy,  yellowish-black  in  hue,  mottled  like  the 
belly  of  a  lizard,— not  a  storm-cloud,  and  not 

49 


PHANTOMS 

smoke,— was  moving  over  the  earth  with  a  slow, 
serpentine  motion.  A  measured,  wide-reaching 
undulation  downward  and  upward, — an  undu- 
lation which  reminded  one  of  the  ominous  sweep 
of  the  wings  of  a  bird  of  prey,  when  it  is  in 
search  of  its  booty;  at  times  an  inexpressibly  re- 
volting swooping  down  to  the  earth, — that  is  the 
way  a  spider  swoops  down  to  the  captured  fly. 
....  Who  art  thou,  what  art  thou,  threatening 
mass?  Under  its  influence — I  saw  it,  I  felt  it — 
everything  was  annihilated,  everything  grew 
dumb.  ...  A  rotten,  pestilential  odour  emanated 
from  it— and  a  chill  that  caused  the  heart  to  grow 
sick,  and  made  things  grow  dark  before  the  eyes, 
and  the  hair  to  stand  on  end.  It  was  a  power 
which  was  advancing; — the  power  which  cannot 
be  resisted,  to  which  all  are  subject,  which,  with- 
out sight,  without  form,  without  thought,  sees 
everything,  knows  everything,  and  like  a  bird  of 
prey  chooses  out  its  victims,  like  a  serpent  crushes 
them  and  licks  them  with  its  chilly  sting.  .  .  . 

"  Ellis!  Ellis!  "—I  shrieked  like  a  madman.— 
"  That  is  Death!    Death  itself!  " 

The  wailing  sound  which  I  had  already  heard, 
burst  from  Ellis's  mouth — this  time  it  bore  more 
resemblance  to  a  despairing,  human  scream — and 
we  dashed  away.  But  our  flight  was  strange  and 
frightfully  uneven;  Ellis  kept  turning  somer- 
saults in  the  air;  she  fell  downward,  she  threw 
herself  from  side  to  side,  like  a  partridge  which 

50 


PHANTOMS 

is  mortally  wounded,  or  which  is  desirous  of  lur^ 
ing  the  hound  away  from  her  brood.  And  yet, 
long,  wavy  offshoots,  separating  themselves  from 
the  inexpressibly-dreadful  mass,  rolled  after  us, 
like  outstretched  arms,  like  claws.  .  .  .  The  huge 
form  of  a  muffled  figure  on  a  pale  horse  rose  up 
for  one  moment,  and  soared  up  to  the  very  sky. 
....  Still  more  agitatedly,  still  more  despair- 
ingly did  Ellis  throw  herself  about.  "  She  has 
seen  me!  All  is  over!  I  am  lost!"  ....  her 
broken  whisper  became  audible.  "  Oh,  unhappy 
one  that  I  am!  I  might  have  enjoyed,  I  might 
have  acquired  life  ....  but  now  ....  Anni- 
hilation, annihilation!" 

This  was  too  unbearable.  ...  I  lost  conscious- 
ness. 


XXV 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  lying  prone  upon 
the  grass,  and  felt  a  dull  pain  all  through  my 
body,  as  though  from  a  severe  injury.  Dawn 
was  breaking  in  the  sky :  I  was  able  to  distinguish 
objects  clearly.  Not  far  away,  along  the  edge 
of  a  birch-coppice,  ran  a  road  fringed  with  wil- 
lows; the  surroundings  seemed  familiar  to  me. 
I  began  to  recall  what  had  happened  to  me, — 
and  I  shuddered  all  over,  as  soon  as  the  last,  mon- 
strous vision  recurred  to  my  mind.  .  .  . 

51 


PHANTOMS 

"  But  of  what  was  Ellis  afraid?  "  I  thought. 
"  Can  it  be  possible  that  she  also  is  subject  to  its 
power?  Can  it  be  that  she  is  not  immortal?  Can 
it  be  that  she  is  doomed  to  annihilation,  to  de- 
struction?   How  is  that  possible?  " 

A  soft  moan  resounded  close  at  hand.  I  turned 
my  head.  Two  paces  distant  from  me  lay,  out- 
stretched and  motionless,  a  young  woman  in  a 
white  gown,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  bared  shoul- 
ders. One  arm  was  thrown  up  over  her  head,  the 
other  fell  upon  her  breast.  Her  eyes  were  closed, 
and  a  light  crimson  foam  had  burst  forth  upon 
the  closely-compressed  lips.  Could  that  be  Ellis? 
But  Ellis  was  a  phantom,  while  I  beheld  before 
me  a  living  woman.  I  approached  her,  bent 
over.  .  .  . 

"Ellis?  Is  it  thou?"  — I  exclaimed.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  slow  quiver,  the  broad  eyelids  were 
lifted;  dark,  piercing  eyes  bored  into  me— and  at 
that  same  moment  the  lips  also  clung  to  me, 
warm,  moist,  with  a  scent  of  blood  ....  the  soft 
arms  wound  themselves  tightly  round  my  neck, 
the  full,  burning  bosom  was  pressed  convulsively 
to  mine.  — "  Farewell!  Farewell  forever!"— a 
dying  voice  articulated  distinctly,— and  every- 
thing vanished. 

I  rose  to  my  feet  staggering  like  one  intox- 
icated, and  passing  my  hands  several  times  across 
my  face,  I  gazed  attentively  about  me.  I  was 
close  to  the  ***  highway,  a  couple  of  versts  from 

52 


PHANTOMS 

my  manor-house.  The  sun  had  already  risen 
when  I  reached  home. 

All  the  following  nights  I  waited— and  not 
without  terror,  I  admit — for  the  appearance  of 
my  phantom;  but  it  did  not  visit  me  again.  I 
even  went  one  day,  in  the  twilight,  to  the  old  oak- 
tree;  but  nothing  unusual  occurred  there  either. 
I  did  not  grieve  overmuch,  however,  at  the  ces- 
sation of  the  strange  friendship.  I  pondered 
much  and  long  over  this  incomprehensible,  almost 
inexplicable  affair — and  I  became  convinced  that 
not  only  is  science  unable  to  elucidate  it,  but  that 
even  in  the  fairy-tales,  the  legends,  there  is  no- 
thing of  the  sort  to  be  encountered.  What  was 
Ellis,  as  a  matter  of  fact?  A  vision,  a  wandering 
soul,  an  evil  spirit,  a  sylph,  a  vampire?  Some- 
times it  seemed  to  me  once  more  that  Ellis  was  a 
woman  whom  I  had  formerly  known,  and  I  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  recall  where  I  had  seen  her. 
.  .  .  .  There  now,  there,— it  sometimes  seemed 
to  me, — I  shall  recall  it  directly,  in  another  mo- 
ment. ...  In  vain !  again  everything  deliquesced 
hke  a  dream.  Yes,  I  pondered  a  great  deal,  and 
as  was  to  be  expected,  I  arrived  at  no  conclusion. 
I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  ask  the  advice 
or  opinion  of  other  people,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
gaining  the  reputation  of  a  madman.  At  last 
I  have  cast  aside  all  my  surmises:  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  am  in  no  mood  for  them.    On  the  one  hand,  the 

53 


PHANTOMS 

Emancipation  has  taken  place,  with  its  division 
of  arable  land,  and  so  forth,  and  so  on;  on  the 
other  hand,  my  health  has  failed;  my  chest  has 
begun  to  pain  me,  I  am  subject  to  insomnia,  and 
have  a  cough.  My  whole  body  is  withering  away. 
My  face  is  yellow  as  that  of  a  corpse.  The  doc- 
tor declares  that  I  have  very  little  blood,  and  calls 
my  malady  by  a  Greek  name — "  anaemia  " — and 
has  ordered  me  to  Gastein.  But  the  Arbiter  of 
the  Peace  ^  fears  that  he  "  will  not  be  able  to  deal 
with  "  the  peasants  without  me.  .  .  . 

So  you  see  how  matters  stand ! 

But  what  signify  those  keen,  piercingly-clear 
sounds, — the  sounds  of  a  harmonica, — which  I 
hear  as  soon  as  people  begin  to  talk  to  me  about 
any  one's  death?  They  grow  ever  louder  and  more 
piercing.  .  .  .  And  why  do  I  shudder  in  such 
torturing  anguish  at  the  mere  thought  of  anni- 
hilation? 

1  An  official  who  was  appointed  after  the  Emancipation  to  arbi- 
trate differences  of  opinion  as  to  the  division  of  the  land  between  the 
landed  proprietors  and  the  serfs. — Tkakslatoh. 


54 


vAkoff  pAsynkoff 

(1855) 


yAkoff  pAsynkoff 


IT  happened  in  Petersburg,  in  winter,  on  the 
first  day  of  the  carnival-week.  I  had  been  in- 
vited to  dine  by  one  of  my  boarding-school  com- 
rades, who  had  borne  the  reputation  in  his  youth 
of  being  a  pretty  girl,  and  had  later  on  turned 
out  a  man  who  was  not  in  the  least  bashful.  He 
is  dead  now,  like  the  majority  of  my  comrades. 
In  addition  to  myself,  Konstantin  Alexandro- 
vitch  Asanoff ,  and  a  literary  celebrity  of  the  day 
had  promised  to  come  to  dinner.  The  literary 
celebrity  kept  us  waiting  for  him,  and  at  last  sent 
word  that  he  would  not  come,  but  in  his  stead  a 
small,  fair-haired  gentleman  presented  himself,— 
one  of  those  everlasting  unbidden  guests  in  which 
Petersburg  abounds. 

The  dinner  lasted  a  long  time ;  the  host  did  not 
spare  his  wine,  and  our  heads  gradually  got 
heated.  Everything  that  each  one  of  us  had  con- 
cealed in  his  soul — and  who  has  not  something 
concealed  in  his  soul? — came  out.  The  host's 
face  suddenly  lost  its  modest  and  reserved  ex- 

57 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

pression ;  his  eyes  began  to  glitter  insolently,  and 
an  insipid  grin  distorted  his  hps;  the  fair-haired 
gentleman  began  to  laugh  in  a  pitiful  sort  of  way, 
with  a  stupid  whine;  but  Asanoff  surprised  me 
most  of  all.  That  man  had  always  been  distin- 
guished for  a  sense  of  decorum ;  but  on  this  occa- 
sion he  suddenly  began  to  pass  his  hand  across 
his  brow,  to  put  on  airs,  and  to  brag  of  his  power- 
ful connections,  incessantly  making  mention  of 
some  uncle  of  his,  a  very  influential  man.  ...  I 
decidedly  failed  to  recognise  him ;  he  was  openly 
jeering  at  us  ....  he  almost  expressed  his  con- 
tempt for  our  society.  Asanofl"s  insolence  en- 
raged me. 

"  See  here,"— I  said  to  him:—"  if  we  are  so  in- 
significant in  your  eyes,  march  ofl*  to  your  influ- 
ential uncle.  But  perhaps  he  does  not  admit  you 
to  his  presence? " 

Asanofl*  made  me  no  reply,  and  continued  to 
draw  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"  And  what  sort  of  folks  are  these!  "—he  said 
again.—"  Why,  they  never  go  in  any  decent  so- 
ciety, they  are  n't  acquainted  with  a  single  well- 
bred  woman,  while  I,"— he  exclaimed,  drawing 
from  his  side-pocket  a  wallet,  and  banging  the 
table  with  it,—"  have  here  a  whole  bunch  of  letters 
from  a  young  girl  whose  like  you  will  not  find  in 
all  the  world! " 

The  host  and  the  fair-haired  gentleman  paid  no 
heed  to  Asanofl"s  last  words;  they  were  clutch- 
ing each  other  by  the  button.       •  d  both  of  them 

58 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

were  narrating  some  story;  but  I  pricked  up  my 
ears. 

"  Well,  you  are  bragging  in  good  sooth,  Mr. 
Nephew  of  an  important  personage!" — I  said, 
moving  closer  to  Asanoff: — "you  have  n't  any 
letters,  whatsoever." 

"  You  think  so?  "—he  retorted,  glancing  loftily 
down  upon  me.  — "  What  's  this,  then?  " — He 
opened  the  wallet,  and  showed  me  about  half  a 
score  of  letters  addressed  to  him.  ..."  The 
handwriting  is  familiar!  " — I  thought.  .  .  . 

I  feel  the  flush  of  shame  start  out  on  my  cheeks 
....  my  self-love  suffers  acutely.  .  .  .  What 
possesses  me  to  confess  so  ignoble  a  deed?  .... 
But  there  is  no  help  for  it.  I  knew  when  I  began 
my  tale  that  I  should  be  forced  to  blush  to  the 
vefy  ears.  So,  then,  summoning  up  all  my  forces, 
1  am  bound  to  confess  that  .... 

Here  is  the  point:  I  took  advantage  of  Asa- 
nofF's  tipsy  condition,  and  when  he  carelessly 
flung  the  letters  on  the  table-cloth,  which  was 
drenched  with  champagne  (my  own  head  was 
buzzing  pretty  hard,  too),  I  swiftly  ran  my  eye 
over  one  of  the  letters.  .  .  . 

My  heart  sank  within  me.  .  .  .  Alas !  I  myself 
was  in  love  with  the  young  girl  who  had  been 
writing  to  Asanoif ,  and  now  I  could  no  longer 
cherish  any  doubt  that  she  loved  him.  The  whole 
letter,  which  was  written  in  French,  breathed 
forth  tenderness,  devotion.  .  .  . 

"  Mon  cher  ami  Cons  tan  tin!  "—that  was  the 

59 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

way  it  began and  it  wound  up  with  the  words : 

"  be  cautious,  as  of  yore,  and  I  will  be  yours  or 
no  one's." 

Stunned,  as  though  by  a  clap  of  thunder,  I  sat 
motionless  for  a  few  moments,  but  recovered  my- 
self at  last,  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  rushed  from 
the  room.  .  .  . 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  was  in  my  own 
lodgings. 

The  Zlotnitzky  family  was  one  of  the  first  with 
which  I  had  become  acquainted  after  my  removal 
from  Moscow  to  Petersburg.  It  consisted  of  fa- 
ther, mother,  two  daughters,  and  a  son.  The 
father,  already  a  grey-haired  but  still  fresh  man, 
formerly  in  the  army,  occupied  a  rather  impor- 
tant post,  spent  the  morning  at  his  service,  slept 
after  dinner,  and  in  the  evening  played  cards  at 
the  club.  .  .  .  He  was  rarely  at  home,  he  con- 
versed little  and  reluctantly,  gazed  askance  from 
under  his  brows  in  a  manner  which  was  not  pre- 
cisely surly  nor  yet  precisely  indiiFerent,  and 
never  read  anything  except  books  of  travel  and 
geographies,  and  when  he  was  ill  he  coloured  pic- 
tures, having  locked  himself  in  his  study,  or 
teased  the  old  grey  parrot  Popka.  His  wife,  an 
ailing  and  consumptive  woman,  with  sunken  black 
eyes  and  a  sharp  nose,  never  quitted  her  couch  for 
days  together,  and  was  always  embroidering  cush- 
ions on  canvas;  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  observe, 

60 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

she  was  afraid  of  her  husband,  exactly  as  though 
she  were  culpable  toward  him  in  some  way.  The 
eldest  daughter,  Varvara,  a  plump,  rosy,  chest- 
nut-haired girl,  eighteen  years  of  age,  was  per- 
petually sitting  at  the  window  and  scrutinising 
the  passers-by.  The  son  was  being  educated  in  a 
government  institution,  made  his  appearance  at 
home  only  on  Sunday,  and  was  not  fond  of  wast- 
ing words  for  nothing  either;  even  the  younger 
daughter,  Sofya,  the  young  girl  with  whom  I 
fell  in  love,  was  of  a  taciturn  disposition.  Si- 
lence always  reigned  in  the  Zlotnitzkys'  house; 
only  Popka's  piercing  screams  broke  it;  but  visi- 
tors speedily  became  accustomed  to  it,  and  again 
felt  the  burden  and  oppression  of  that  eternal 
silence  weighing  upon  them.  However,  visitors 
rarely  looked  in  at  the  Zlotnitzkys':  it  was  tire- 
some there.  The  very  furniture,  the  red  wall- 
paper, with  yellowish  patterns,  in  the  drawing- 
room;  the  multitude  of  chairs,  with  plaited  seats, 
in  the  dining-room;  the  faded  worsted  pillows, 
with  representations  of  young  girls  and  dogs,  on 
the  divans;  the  horned  lamps  and  gloomy  por- 
traits, on  the  walls — all  inspired  an  involuntary'- 
melancholy,  all  emitted  a  cold,  sour  sort  of  atmos- 
phere. On  reaching  Petersburg,  I  had  regarded 
it  as  my  duty  to  call  upon  the  Zlotnitzkys:  they 
were  distantly  related  to  my  mother.  AVith  dif- 
ficulty did  I  sit  out  the  hour,  and  for  a  long  time 
I  did  not  return;  but  gradually  I  took  to  going 

61 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

more  and  more  frequently.  I  was  attracted  by 
Sofya,  whom  I  had  not  hked  at  first,  and  with 
whom  I  ultimately  fell  in  love. 

She  was  a  girl  of  short  stature,  almost  gaunt, 
with  a  pale  face,  thick,  black  hair,  and  large, 
brown  eyes,  which  were  always  half -closed.  Her 
features,  which  were  regular  and  sharp-set,  espe- 
cially her  tightly-compressed  lips,  expressed 
firmness  and  force  of  will.  At  home  she  was 
called  a  girl  with  character.  ..."  She  resembles 
her  eldest  sister,  Katerina," — said  Madame  Zlot- 
nitzky  one  day,  when  she  was  sitting  alone  with 
me  (she  never  ventured  to  refer  to  that  Katerina 
in  her  husband's  presence) . — "  You  do  not  know 
her;  she  is  in  the  Caucasus,  married.  At  the  age 
of  thirteen, — just  imagine  it! — she  fell  in  love 
with  the  man  who  is  now  her  husband,  and  then 
announced  to  us  that  she  would  marry  no  one 
else.  Do  what  we  would, — nothing  was  of  any 
avail !  She  waited  until  she  was  twenty-three,  en- 
raged her  father, — and  married  her  idol  all  the 
same.  It  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  catastrophe  to  happen  with  Sonetchka  also! 
May  the  Lord  preserve  her  from  such  stubborn- 
ness !  But  I  'm  apprehensive  for  her ;  she  is  only 
sixteen,  but  already  it  is  impossible  to  control 
her.  ..." 

Mr.  Zlotnitzky  entered;  his  wife  immediately 
fell  silent. 

Strictly  speaking,  Sofya  did  not  attract  me  by 

62 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

her  force  of  will— no;  but,  with  all  her  dryness, 
and  lack  of  animation  and  imagination,  she  pos- 
sessed the  charm  of  straightforwardness,  honour- 
able sincerity,  and  spiritual  purity.  I  respected 
her  as  much  as  I  loved  her.  ...  It  seemed  to  me 
that  she  was  well-inclined  toward  me ;  it  was  pain- 
ful to  me  to  be  undeceived  as  to  her  attachment, 
to  become  convinced  of  her  love  for  another. 

The  unexpected  discovery  which  I  had  made 
astounded  me  all  the  more,  because  Mr.  Asanoff 
visited  the  Zlotnitzkys'  house  infrequently,  much 
more  rarely  than  I  did,  and  showed  no  particular 
preference  for  Sofya.  He  was  a  handsome,  dark- 
complexioned  man,  with  expressive,  although 
rather  heavy  features,  prominent,  brilliant  eyes, 
a  large,  white  brow,  and  plump,  red  httle  lips  be- 
neath a  delicate  moustache.  He  bore  himself  very 
modestly,  but  rigorously,  talked  and  pronounced 
judgment  with  self-confidence,  and  held  his  peace 
with  dignity.  It  was  obvious  that  he  thought  a 
great  deal  of  himself.  AsanofF  laughed  rarely, 
and  that  through  his  teeth,  and  he  never  danced. 
He  was  very  badly  built.  He  had  once  served 
in  the  ***  regiment,  and  had  borne  the  reputa- 
tion of  an  active  officer. 

"  Strange !  "—I  reflected,  as  I  lay  on  my  divan : 
—"why  have  I  not  noticed  anything  of  this?" 
The  words  of  Sofya's  letter  suddenly  recurred  to 
my  mind.— "Ah!"— I  thought:— "  that  's  it! 
What  a  crafty  httle  girl!     And  I  had  thought 

63 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

her  frank  and  sincere.  .  .  .  Well,  just  wait,  and 
I  '11  show  you !...." 

But  at  this  point,  so  far  as  I  can  recall  the 
circumstances,  I  fell  to  weeping  bitterly,  and 
could  not  get  to  sleep  until  morning. 

On  the  following  day,  at  two  o'clock,  I  set  out  for 
the  Zlotnitzkys'.  The  old  man  was  not  at  home, 
and  his  wife  was  not  sitting  in  her  accustomed 
place;  her  head  had  begun  to  ache  after  she  had 
eaten  pancakes,^  and  she  had  gone  to  lie  down  in 
her  bedroom.  Varvara  was  standing  with  her 
shoulder  leaning  against  the  window,  and  staring 
into  the  street ;  Sofya  was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the 
room,  with  her  arms  folded  across  her  breast; 
Popka^  was  shrieking. 

"Ah!  good  morning!  "—said  Varvara,  lan- 
guidly, as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room,  and  imme- 
diately added,  in  an  undertone:  "yonder  goes  a 
man  with  a  tray  on  his  head.  .  .  ."  (She  had  a 
habit  of  making  remarks  about  the  passers-by, 
occasionally,  and  as  though  to  herself. ) 

"  Good  morning,"— I  replied.  —  "  Good  morn- 
ing, Sofya  Nikolaevna.  And  where  is  Tatyana 
Vasilievna?  " 

1  Pancakes,  served  with  melted  butter  and  caviare  (never  with  sweet 
syrup),  are  the  principal  feature  of  the  Russian  "  butter-week  "  or 
carnival-tide,  and  are  seldom  or  never  eaten  at  any  other  time. — 
Translator. 

2  Equivalent  to  Polly,  in  the  case  of  parrots.— Thanslatoh. 

64 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  She  has  gone  to  lie  down," — replied  Sofya, 
continuing  to  pace  the  room. 

"  We  had  pancakes," — remarked  Varvara, 
without  turning  round.  — "  Why  did  n't  you 
come?  .  .  .  Where  is  that  clerk  going?  " 

"I  had  no  time."- ("  Po-li-iice!  "  yelled  the 
parrot,  harshly.) —"  How  your  Popka  does 
screech  to-day! " 

"  He  always  screeches  like  that," — said  Sofya. 

We  all  maintained  silence  for  a  while. 

"  He  has  turned  in  at  the  gate," — said  Var- 
vara, suddenly  climbing  on  the  window-sill  and 
opening  the  hinged  pane. 

"  What  art  thou  about?  " — inquired  Sofya. 

"  A  beggar," — replied  Varvara,  bent  down, 
picked  up  a  copper  five-kopek  piece,  on  which  the 
ashes  of  a  fumigating  pastile  still  rose  in  a  mound, 
flung  the  coin  into  the  street,  slammed  to  the  pane, 
and  jumped  heavily  to  the  floor.  .  .  . 

"  I  passed  the  time  very  pleasantly  last  night," 
—I  began,  as  I  seated  myself  in  an  arm-chair: — 
"  I  dined  with  a  friend ;  Konstantin  Alexandritch 
was  there.  ..."  (I  looked  at  Sofya;  she  did  not 
even  contract  her  brows.) —"  And,  I  must  con- 
fess,"— I  went  on, — "  that  we  got  rather  con- 
vivial; the  four  of  us  drank  eight  bottles." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  "—calmly  ejaculated  So- 
fya, shaking  her  head. 

"  Yes," — I  went  on,  slightly  nettled  by  her  in- 

65 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

difference; — "and  do  you  know  what,  Sofya 
Nikolaevna, — 't  is  not  without  reason  that  the 
proverb  says  that  when  the  wine  is  in  the  truth 
comes  out." 

"How  so?" 

"  Konstantin  Alexandritch  made  us  laugh 
greatly.  Just  picture  to  yourself:  he  suddenly 
took  to  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead  like 
this,  and  saying :  '  What  a  fine,  dashing  fellow  I 
am!  I  have  an  uncle  who  is  a  distinguished 
man.  .  .  .' " 

"  Ha,  ha!  " — rang  out  Varvara's  short,  abrupt 
laugh.  ..."  Popka,  popka,  popka! "  rattled 
the  parrot  in  response. 

Sofya  halted  in  front  of  me,  and  looked  into 
my  face. 

"And  what  did  you  say?" — she  asked; — 
"  don't  you  remember?  " 

I  blushed  involuntarily. 

"  I  don't  remember!  I  must  have  been  in  a  fine 
state  also.  As  a  matter  of  fact,"— I  added,  with 
significant  pauses: — "  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to 
drink  wine ;  the  first  you  know,  you  babble  secrets, 
and  say  that  which  no  one  ought  to  know.  You 
will  repent  afterward,  but  then  it  is  too  late." 

"  And  did  you  babble  secrets?  "—inquired 
Sofya. 

"  I  'm  not  talking  about  myself." 

Sofya  turned  away,  and  again  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room.    I  gazed  at  her,  and  raged 

66 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

inwardly.  "  Just  look  at  you," — I  said  to  myself, 
— "  you  're  a  baby,  a  mere  child,  yet  what  control 
you  have  over  yourself !  You  're  like  a  stone,  sim- 
ply.   But  just  wait  a  bit.  .  .  ." 

"  Sofya  Nikolaevna  .  .  .  ."I  said  aloud. 

Sofya  stood  still. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"  Will  not  you  play  something  on  the  piano? 
By  the  way,  I  have  something  to  tell  you," — I 
added,  lowering  my  voice. 

Sofya,  without  uttering  a  word,  went  into  the 
hall;  I  followed  her.  She  stopped  beside  the 
piano. 

"  What  shall  I  play  for  you?  " — she  asked. 

"  What  you  please  ...  a  nocturne  by  Chopin." 

Sofya  began  the  nocturne.  She  played  rather 
badly,  but  with  feeling.  Her  sister  played  only 
polkas  and  waltzes,  and  that  rarely.  She  would 
lounge  up  to  the  piano,  with  her  lazy  gait,  seat 
herself,  drop  the  burnous  from  her  shoulders  to 
her  elbows  (I  never  saw  her  without  a  burnous) , 
start  up  a  polka  thunderously,  fail  to  finish  it, 
begin  another,  then  suddenly  heave  a  sigh,  rise 
and  return  to  the  window.  A  strange  being  was 
that  Varvara. 

I  sat  down  beside  Sofya. 

"  Sofya  Nikolaevna," — I  began,  gazing  in- 
tently at  her  askance: — "  I  must  impart  to  you  a 
bit  of  news  which  is  very  disagreeable  to  me." 

"News?    What  is  it?" 

67 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  This.  .  .  .  Up  to  this  time  I  have  been  mis- 
taken in  you,  utterly  mistaken." 

"  How  so?  "—she  returned,  continuing  to  play, 
and  fixing  her  eyes  on  her  fingers. 

"  I  have  thought  that  you  were  frank;  I  have 
thought  that  you  did  not  know  how  to  be  crafty, 
to  be  sly " 

Sofya  put  her  face  close  to  her  music.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"But  the  principal  thing  is," — I  went  on: — 
"  that  I  could  not  possibly  imagine,  that  you,  at 
your  age,  were  already  capable  of  playing  a.  part 
in  so  masterly  a  manner.  .  .  ." 

Sofya's  hands  trembled  slightly  on  the  keys. 

"  What  are  you  saying?  "  —  she  said,  still  with- 
out looking  at  me: — "  I  am  playing  a  part?  " 

"  Yes,  you."  (She  laughed.  .  .  .  Fierce  wrath 
took  possession  of  me.)  .  .  .  .  "  You  feign  to  be 
indifferent  to  a  certain  man  and  .  .  .  and  you 
write  letters  to  him," — I  added  in  a  whisper. 

Sofya's  cheeks  blanched,  but  she  did  not  turn 
toward  me;  she  played  the  nocturne  to  the  end, 
rose,  and  shut  the  lid  of  the  piano. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " — I  asked,  not  with- 
out confusion. — "  You  will  not  answer  me?  " 

"  What  answer  have  I  to  make  to  you?  I 
don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  .  .  . 
And  I  don't  know  how  to  dissemble." 

She  began  to  put  the  music  together.  .  .  . 

The  blood  flew  to  my  head. 

68 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  Yes,  you  do  know  what  I  am  talking  about," 
—I  said,  rising  also:— "and  if  you  like,  I  will 
immediately  remind  you  of  several  expressions 
in  one  of  those  letters:— 'be  cautious  as  of 
yore.' ..." 

Sofya  gave  a  slight  start. 

"  I  had  not  in  the  least  expected  this  from  you," 
— she  said  at  last. 

"  And  I  had  not  in  the  least  expected,"— I 
interposed,—"  that  you,  Sofya  Nikolaevna, 
deigned  to  bestow  your  attention  upon  a  man 
who  .  .  .  ." 

Sofya  turned  swiftly  toward  me;  I  involun- 
tarily retreated  a  pace;  her  eyes,  always  half- 
closed,  were  so  widely  opened  that  they  ap- 
peared huge,  and  sparkled  angrily  under  her 
brows. 

"Ah!  In  that  case,"— said  she,— "you  must 
know  that  I  love  that  man,  and  that  your  opinion 
of  him  and  of  my  love  for  him  is  a  matter  of 
perfect  indifference  to  me.  And  where  did  you 
get  the  idea?  ....  What  right  have  you  to  say 
that?  And  if  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  any- 
thing .  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  short,  and  swiftly  left  the  room. 

I  remained.  I  suddenly  felt  so  awkward  and 
conscience-stricken,  that  I  covered  my  face  with 
my  hands.  I  comprehended  all  the  impropriety, 
all  the  baseness  of  my  conduct,  and  panting  with 
shame  and  penitence,  I  stood  like  one  branded 

69 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

with    disgrace.      "My    God!"— I    thought:— 
"  what  have  I  done?  " 

"  Anton  Nikititch,"— the  maid's  voice  became 
audible  in  the  anteroom,—"  please  get  a  glass  of 
water  as  quickly  as  possible  for  Sofya  Nikola- 
evna." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter?  "—asked  the  butler. 

"  I  think  she  's  weeping.  .  .  ." 

I  gave  a  start,  and  went  into  the  drawing-room 
to  get  my  hat. 

"  What  were  you  talking  about  with  S6- 
netchka?  "— Varvara  asked  me  indifferently,  and 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  added  in  an  undertone: 
— "  there  goes  that  notary's  clerk  again." 

I  began  to  take  my  leave. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  Wait,  mamma  will 
come  out  of  her  room  directly." 

"No;  I  can't  now,"— said  I:— "it  would  be 
better  for  me  to  return  some  other  time." 

At  that  moment,  to  my  terror,— precisely  that, 
—to  my  terror,  Sofya  entered  the  drawing-room 
with  firm  steps.  Her  face  was  paler  than  usual, 
and  her  eyelids  were  slightly  red.  She  did  not 
even  glance  at  me. 

"  Look,  Sofya,"— said  Varvara:—"  some  clerk 
or  other  keeps  walking  about  our  house." 

"  Some  spy  or  other,"  ....  remarked  Sofya, 
coldly  and  scornfully. 

This  was  too  much!  I  departed,  and,  really, 
I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  home. 

70 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  was  very  heavy  at  heart,  more  heavy  and 
bitter  than  I  can  describe.  Two  such  cruel  blows 
in  the  space  of  four-and-twenty  hours!  I  had 
learned  that  Sofya  loved  another,  and  had  for- 
ever forfeited  her  respect.  I  felt  myself  so  anni- 
hilated and  put  to  shame,  that  I  could  not  even 
be  indignant  with  myself.  As  I  lay  on  the  divan, 
with  my  face  turned  to  the  wall,  I  was  surrender- 
ing myself  with  a  sort  of  burning  enjoyment  to 
the  first  outbursts  of  despairing  anguish,  when 
I  suddenly  heard  footsteps  in  the  room.  I 
raised  my  head  and  beheld  one  of  my  most  in- 
timate friends — YakofF  PasynkofF. 

I  was  ready  to  fly  into  a  passion  with  any  man 
who  entered  my  room  that  day,  but  never  could  I 
be  angry  with  PasynkofF;  on  the  contrary,  in 
spite  of  the  grief  which  was  devouring  me,  I  in- 
wardly rejoiced  at  his  coming,  and  nodded  to  him. 
According  to  his  wont,  he  strode  up  and  down  the 
room  a  couple  of  times,  grunting  and  stretching 
his  long  limbs,  stood  silently  for  a  little  while,  in 
front  of  me,  and  silently  seated  himself  in  one 
corner. 

I  had  known  PasynkofF  a  very  long  time,  al- 
most from  childhood.  He  had  been  reared  in 
the  same  private  boarding-school,  kept  by  a  Ger- 
man named  Winterkeller,  in  which  I  had  spent 
three  years.  Yakoff's  father,  a  poor,  retired 
major,  a  very  honourable  man,  but  somewhat  un- 
hinged mentally,  had  brought  him,  an  urchin  of 

n 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

seven  years,  to  this  German,  paid  a  year's  tuition 
in  advance,  had  gone  avray  from  Moscow,  and 
vanished,  without  leaving  a  trace.  From  time 
to  time  dark,  strange  rumours  concerning  him  ar- 
rived. Only  after  the  lapse  of  seven  years  was  it 
learned  with  certainty  that  he  had  been  drowned 
in  a  freshet,  as  he  was  crossing  the  Irtysh.  What 
had  taken  him  to  Siberia,  the  Lord  only  knows. 
YakofF  had  no  other  relatives.  So  he  remained 
on  Winterkeller's  hands.  It  is  true  that  YakofF 
had  one  distant  relative, — an  aunt,  who  was  so 
poor,  that  at  first  she  was  afraid  to  go  to  see  her 
nephew,  lest  they  should  cast  him  on  her  shoul- 
ders. Her  alarm  proved  to  be  unfounded;  the 
kind-hearted  German  kept  YakofF  with  him,  per- 
mitted him  to  learn  with  the  other  pupils,  fed 
him  (but  they  passed  him  over  at  dessert  on  week- 
days), and  made  over  clothing  for  him  from  the 
camelot  morning-gowns  (chiefly  snufF-coloured) 
of  his  mother,  a  very  aged,  but  still  alert  and 
active  Liflyand  ^  woman.  The  result  of  all  these 
circumstances,  and  the  result  of  YakofF's  inferior 
position  in  the  boarding-school  was,  that  his  com- 
rades treated  him  slightingly,  looked  down  on 
him,  and  called  him  sometimes  "  woman's  wrap- 
per," sometimes  "  the  mob-cap's  nephew  "  (his 
aunt  constantly  wore  a  very  queer  cap,  with  a 
tuft  of  yellow  ribbons  in  the  shape  of  an  arti- 
choke, sticking  out  at  the  top),  sometimes  "the 

^  Livonia.— Translator. 

72 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

son  of  Yermak  ^  (because  his  father  had  been 
drowned  in  the  Irtysh).  But,  in  spite  of  these 
nicknames,  in  spite  of  his  absurd  garments,  in 
spite  of  his  extreme  poverty,  they  all  loved  him 
greatly,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  love  him;  a 
kinder,  more  noble  soul  never  existed  on  earth, 
I  think.    He  also  studied  extremely  well. 

When  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  he  was  six- 
teen years  of  age,  while  I  had  just  passed  my 
thirteenth  birthday.  I  was  an  extremely  conceited 
and  spoiled  urchin,  had  been  reared  in  a  fairly 
wealthy  home,  and  therefore  when  I  entered  the 
boarding-school  I  made  haste  to  get  intimate  with 
a  certain  little  Prince,  the  object  of  Winterkeller's 
special  solicitude,  and  with  two  or  three  other 
small  aristocrats,  while  I  put  on  pompous  airs 
with  all  the  rest.  I  did  not  even  deign  to  notice 
Pasynkoff .  That  long,  awkward  young  fellow, 
in  his  hideous  round- jacket  and  short  trousers, 
from  beneath  which  peeped  thick,  knitted  thread 
stockings,  seemed  to  me  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  page-boy  from  the  house-serfs'  class,  or  the 
son  of  a  petty  burgher.  Pasynkoff  was  very  po- 
lite and  gentle  to  everybody,  although  he  fawned 
on  no  one ;  if  they  repulsed  him,  he  did  not  hum- 
ble himself,  and  did  not  sulk,  but  held  himself 
aloof,  as  though  grieving  and  waiting.  Thus  did 
he  behave  with   me   also.     About   two   months 

1  The  conqueror  of  Siberia,  in  the  reign  of  Ivan  the  Terrible.    He  was 
drowned  (1584)  while  trying  to  swim  the  Irtysh.— TRANaLATOR. 

73 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

elapsed.  One  clear  summer  day,  as  I  was  pass- 
ing from  the  courtyard  into  the  garden,  after  a 
noisy  game  of  ball,  I  saw  Pasynkoff  sitting  on  a 
bench,  under  a  tall  lilac-bush.  He  was  reading 
a  book.  I  cast  a  glance,  in  passing,  at  the  cover, 
and  read  on  the  back  the  title:  "  Schiller's 
Werke."    I  stopped  short. 

"  Do  you  know  German?  "—I  asked  Pasyn- 
koff. .  .  . 

To  this  day  I  feel  mortified,  when  I  recall  how 
much  scorn  there  was  in  the  sound  of  my  voice. 
....  Pasynkoff  gently  raised  his  small  but 
expressive  eyes  to  mine,  and  answered: 

"  Yes,  I  do;  do  you?  " 

"  I  should  think  sol  "—I  retorted,  already  af- 
fronted; and  was  on  the  point  of  proceeding  on 
my  way,  but  something  kept  me  back. 

"  And  what  in  particular  are  you  reading  from 
Schiller?"— I  inquired  with  as  much  haughti- 
ness as  before. 

"  I  am  now  reading  '  Resignation  ' ;  it  is  a  very 
beautiful  poem.  I  '11  read  it  to  you  if  you  like— 
shall  I?    Sit  down  here  beside  me,  on  the  bench." 

I  hesitated  a  little,  but  sat  down.  Pasynkoff 
began  to  read.  He  knew  German  much  better 
than  I  did;  he  was  obliged  to  explain  to  me  the 
sense  of  several  lines;  but  I  was  no  longer 
ashamed  either  of  my  ignorance,  or  of  his  superi- 
ority to  myself.  From  that  day  forth,  from  that 
reading  together  in  the  garden,  in  the  shade  of  the 

74 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

lilac-bush,  I  loved  Pasynkoff  with  all  my  soul ;  I 
got  intimate  with  him,  I  submitted  wholly  to  him. 
I  vividly  recall  his  personal  appearance  at  that 
epoch.  However,  he  changed  very  little  after- 
ward. He  was  tall,  thin,  long-bodied,  and  de- 
cidedly clumsy.  His  narrow  shoulders  and 
sunken  chest  gave  him  a  sickly  aspect,  although 
he  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  his  health.  His 
large  head,  arched  on  top,  was  inclined  slightly 
on  one  side,  his  soft,  chestnut  hair  hung  in  thin 
locks  around  his  thin  neck.  His  face  was  not 
handsome,  and  might  even  appear  ridiculous, 
thanks  to  his  long,  thick  and  reddened  nose, 
which  seemed  to  hang  over  his  broad,  straight 
lips;  but  his  open  brow  was  very  fine,  and  when 
he  smiled,  his  small,  grey  eyes  beamed  with  such 
gentle  and  affectionate  good-nature,  that  every- 
one felt  warm  and  blithe  at  heart,  from  merely 
looking  at  him.  I  recall  his  voice,  also,  soft  and 
even,  with  a  peculiarly  agreeable  hoarseness.  He 
talked  little,  as  a  general  thing,  and  with  obvious 
difficulty ;  but  when  he  grew  animated  his  speech 
flowed  freely  and,— strange  to  say!— his  voice 
grew  even  softer,  his  glance  seemed  to  retreat 
within  and  become  extinguished,  and  his  whole 
face  flushed  faintly.  In  his  mouth  the  words: 
"good,"  "truth,"  "life,"  "science,"  "love," 
never  had  a  false  ring,  no  matter  how  enthusi- 
astically he  uttered  them.  He  entered  into  the 
realm  of  the  ideal  without  a  strain,  without  an 

75 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

eiFort;  his  chaste  soul  was  ready  at  all  times  to 
present  itself  before  "  the  shrine  of  beauty  ";  it 
waited  only  for  the  greeting,  the  touch  of  an- 
other soul.  .  .  .  Pasynkoff  was  a  romanticist, 
one  of  the  last  romanticists  whom  I  have  chanced 
to  meet.  The  romanticists,  as  every  one  knows, 
have  died  out  now;  at  all  events,  there  are  none 
among  the  young  people  of  the  present  day.  So 
much  the  worse  for  the  young  people  of  the  pres- 
ent day ! 

I  spent  about  three  years  with  Pasynkoff,  soul 
to  soul,  as  the  saying  is.  I  was  the  confidant  of 
his  first  love.  With  what  grateful  attention  and 
sympathy  did  I  listen  to  his  avowal!  The  object 
of  his  passion  was  Winterkeller's  niece,  a  fair- 
haired  pretty  little  German,  with  a  plump,  almost 
childish  little  face,  and  trustful,  tender  blue  eyes. 
She  was  very  kind-hearted  and  sentimental,  loved 
Mattieson,  Uhland,  and  Schiller,  and  recited  their 
verses  very  agreeably,  in  her  timid,  melodious 
voice.  PasynkofF's  love  was  of  the  most  platonic 
sort;  he  saw  his  beloved  only  on  Sunday  (she 
came  to  play  at  forfeits  with  the  Winterkeller 
children)  and  talked  very  little  with  her;  on  the 
other  hand,  one  day,  when  she  said  to  him,  "  Mein 
lieher,  lieher  Herr  Jacob!"  he  could  not  get  to 
sleep  all  night  from  excess  of  happiness.  It  never 
entered  his  head  then,  that  she  said  ''  mein  lieher  " 
to  all  his  comrades.  I  remember,  too,  his  grief 
and  dejection,  when  the  news  suddenly  spread 

76 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

abroad,  that  Fraulein  Frederika  (that  was  her 
name),  was  going  to  marry  Herr  Kniftus,  the 
owner  of  a  rich  meat-shop,  and  marry  solely  out 
of  obedience  to  her  parents'  wishes,  but  not  for 
love.  That  was  a  difficult  time  for  Pasynkoff, 
and  he  suffered  especially  on  the  day  when  the 
newly-wedded  pair  made  their  first  call.  The 
former  Fraulein,  now  already  Frau  Frederika, 
introduced  him  again  by  the  name  of  "  lieber  Herr 
Jacob"  to  her  husband,  everything  about  whom 
was  glistening :  his  eyes,  and  his  black  hair  curled 
into  a  crest,  and  his  forehead,  and  his  teeth,  and 
the  buttons  on  his  dress-suit,  and  the  chain  on 
his  waistcoat,  and  the  very  boots  on  his  decidedly 
large  feet,  whose  toes  were  pointed  outward.  Pa- 
synkoff shook  hands  with  Herr  Kniftus,  and 
wished  him  (and  wished  it  sincerely — I  am  con- 
vinced of  that)  full  and  long-continued  happi- 
ness. This  took  place  in  my  presence.  I  remem- 
ber with  what  surprise  and  sympathy  I  gazed  at 
Yakoff  then.  He  seemed  to  me  a  hero !  .  .  .  And 
afterward,  what  sad  conversations  took  place  be- 
tween us! — "  Seek  consolation  in  art," — I  said  to 
him. — "  Yes," — he  answered  me, — "  and  in 
poetry."—"  And  in  friendship,"— I  added. — 
"  And  in  friendship,"— he  repeated.  Oh,  happy 
days!  .  .  . 

It  was  painful  to  me  to  part  from  Pasynkoff! 
Just  before  my  departure,  he  finally  got  his  pa- 
pers, and  entered  the  university,  after  long  wor- 

77 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

rying  and  trouble,  and  a  correspondence  which 
was  often  amusing  He  continued  to  exist  at 
Winterkeller's  expense,  but  in  place  of  the  came- 
lot  round- jackets  and  trousers,  he  received  the 
customary  clothing  in  return  for  lessons  in  vari- 
ous subjects,  which  he  gave  to  the  younger  pupils. 
PasynkofF  never  changed  his  mode  of  conduct 
to  me  to  the  very  end  of  my  stay  in  the  boarding- 
school,  although  the  difference  in  our  ages  had 
already  begun  to  tell,  and  I,  I  remember,  had 
begun  to  be  jealous  of  several  of  his  new  com- 
rade-students. His  influence  on  me  was  of  the 
most  beneficial  nature.  Unfortunately,  it  was 
not  of  long  duration.  I  will  cite  one  instance 
only.  In  my  childhood,  I  had  a  habit  of  lying. 
....  In  YakofF's  presence  my  tongue  never 
turned  to  falsehood.  But  especially  delightful  to 
me  was  it  to  stroll  with  him,  or  to  pace  by  his 
side  to  and  fro  in  the  room,  and  listen  to  him 
recite  verses  in  his  quiet,  concentrated  voice,  with- 
out glancing  at  me.  Really,  it  seemed  to  me  then, 
that  he  and  I  were  gradually  leaving  the  earth 
behind  us  and  soaring  away  into  some  radiant, 
mysteriously-beautiful  region.  ...  I  remember 
one  night.  He  and  I  were  sitting  under  the  same 
lilac-bush :  we  had  grown  fond  of  the  spot.  All 
our  comrades  were  already  asleep;  but  we  had 
risen  softly,  dressed  ourselves  by  the  sense  of  feel- 
ing, in  the  dark,  and  stealthily  gone  out  "  to 
dream  awhile."    It  was  quite  warm  out  of  doors, 

78 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

but  a  chilly  little  breeze  blew  in  gusts  now  and 
then,  and  made  us  nestle  up  closer  to  each  other. 
We  talked,  we  talked  a  great  deal,  and  with  fer- 
vour, so  that  we  even  interrupted  each  other,  al- 
though we  were  not  wrangling.  In  the  sky 
shone  myriads  of  stars.  YakofF  raised  his  eyes, 
and,  pressing  my  hand  closely,  softly  exclaimed: 

"Above  us 

Lies  Heaven  with  its  eternal  stars.    ,.   .   . 
And  above  the  stars  is  their  Creator.    „   .    .■" 

A  devout  tremor  coursed  through  me ;  I  turned 
cold  all  over,  and  sank  down  on  his  shoulder.  .  .  . 
My  heart  was  filled  to  overflowing.  .  .  . 

Where  are  those  raptures  now?  Alas!  in  the 
place  where  youth  is  also. 

I  encountered  Yakoff  in  Petersburg  eight 
years  later  on.  I  had  just  obtained  a  position 
in  the  government  service,  and  some  one  had  got 
him  a  petty  post  in  some  department  or  other. 
Our  meeting  was  of  the  most  joyous  character. 
Never  shall  I  forget  that  moment  when,  as  I  was 
sitting  at  home  one  day,  I  suddenly  heard  his 
voice  in  the  anteroom.  .  .  .  How  I  started,  with 
what  a  violent  beating  of  the  heart  did  I  spring  to 
my  feet  and  throw  myself  on  his  neck,  without 
giving  him  time  to  take  off  his  fur  coat  and  un- 
wind his  scarf!  How  eagerly  did  I  gaze  at  him 
athwart  bright,  involuntary  tears  of  delight !  He 
had  aged  somewhat  in  the  course  of  the  last  seven 

79 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

years ;  wrinkles,  fine  as  the  trace  of  a  needle,  had 
furrowed  his  brow  here  and  there,  his  cheeks  had 
grown  slightly  sunken,  but  his  beard  had  hardly 
increased  at  all  in  thickness,  and  his  smile  re- 
mained the  same  as  of  yore,  and  his  laugh,  his 
charming,  inward  laugh,  which  resembled  a  draw- 
ing-in  of  the  breath,  was  the  same  as  ever.  .  .  . 

Great  heavens !  what  was  there  that  we  did  not 
talk  over  that  day!  ....  How  many  favourite 
poems  we  recited  to  each  other!  I  began  to  urge 
him  to  come  and  live  with  me,  but  he  would  not 
consent;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  promised  to 
come  to  see  me  every  day,  and  he  kept  his  promise. 

And  Pasynkoff  had  not  changed  in  soul,  either. 
He  presented  himself  before  me  the  same  roman- 
ticist as  I  had  formerly  known  him.  In  spite  of 
the  way  in  which  life's  chill,  the  bitter  chill  of 
experience,  had  gripped  him,  the  tender  flower, 
which  had  blossomed  early  in  the  heart  of  my 
friend  had  retained  all  its  pristine  beauty.  No 
sadness,  no  pensiveness  even,  were  perceptible  in 
him:  as  of  old,  he  was  gentle,  but  ever  blithe  in 
soul. 

He  lived  in  Petersburg  as  in  a  desert,  taking 
no  heed  for  the  future,  and  consorting  with 
hardly  any  one.  I  made  him  acquainted  with  the 
Zlotnitzkys.  He  called  on  them  with  tolerable 
frequency.  Without  being  conceited,  he  was  not 
shy :  but  with  them,  as  everywhere  else,  he  talked 
little,  although  he  liked  them.     The  heavy  old 

80 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

man,  Tatyana  Vasilievna's  husband,  even  treated 
him  affectionately,  and  both  the  taciturn  girls 
speedily  got  used  to  him. 

He  would  come  bringing  with  him,  in  the  back 
pocket  of  his  overcoat,  some  newly-published 
work,  and  take  a  long  time  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  read  it,  but  keep  twisting  his  neck  to  one  side, 
like  a  bird,  and  peering  to  see  whether  it  were 
possible;  and,  at  last,  he  would  ensconce  himself 
in  a  corner  (he  was  fond,  in  general,  of  sitting  in 
corners),  pull  out  the  book,  and  set  to  reading 
aloud,  now  and  then  interrupting  himself  with 
brief  comments  or  exclamations.  I  noticed  that 
Varvara  was  more  given  to  sitting  down  beside 
him  and  listening  than  her  sister  was,  although, 
of  course,  she  did  not  understand  him  clearly: 
literature  did  not  interest  her.  She  would  sit  op- 
posite Pasynkoff,  with  her  chin  propped  on  her 
hands,  and  gaze,  — not  into  his  eyes,  but  into  his 
whole  face,— and  not  give  utterance  to  a  single 
word,  but  merely  heave  a  sudden,  noisy  sigh. — In 
the  evening,  we  played  at  forfeits,  especially  on 
Sundays  and  feast-days.  We  were  then  joined 
by  two  young  ladies,  sisters,  distant  relatives  of 
the  Zlotnitzkys,— small,  plump  girls,  and  fright- 
ful gigglers;  also  by  several  cadets  and  yunkers, 
very  quiet,  good-natured  lads.  Pasynkoff  alwaj^s 
seated  himself  beside  Tatyana  Vasilievna,  and 
helped  her  devise  what  the  person  who  drew  the 
forfeit  should  do. 

81 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Sofya  was  not  fond  of  the  caresses  and  kisses 
with  which  forfeits  are  usually  redeemed,  while 
Varvara  was  vexed  when  she  was  compelled  to 
hunt  up  anything  or  guess  a  riddle.  The  young 
ladies  giggled  incessantly, — heaven  knows  what 
about, — and  I  was  sometimes  seized  with  vexa- 
tion when  I  looked  at  them,  while  PasynkofF 
merely  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  Old  Zlotnitzky 
took  no  part  in  our  games,  and  even  glowered  at 
us  in  none  too  gracious  wise  from  behind  the  door 
of  his  study.  Once  only,  quite  unexpectedly,  did 
he  come  out  to  us,  and  suggest  that  the  person 
whose  forfeit  was  drawn  should  waltz  with  him; 
of  course,  we  assented.  Tatyana  Vasilievna's 
forfeit  was  drawn ;  she  flushed  all  over,  grew  con- 
fused and  shy  as  a  fifteen-year-old  girl, — but  her 
husband  immediately  bade  Sofya  to  seat  herself 
at  the  piano,  stepped  up  to  his  wife,  and  took  a 
couple  of  turns  with  her,  in  old-fashioned  style, 
in  three-time.  I  remember  how  his  sallow,  dark 
face,  with  unsmiling  eyes,  now  appeared,  now 
disappeared,  as  he  revolved  slowly,  and  without 
altering  his  stern  expression.  In  waltzing  he 
took  long  steps,  and  skipped,  while  his  wife 
took  quick  little  steps  and  pressed  her  face 
to  his  breast,  as  though  in  terror.  He  led  her  to 
her  seat,  made  his  bow  to  her,  went  off  to  his 
own  room,  and  locked  himself  in.  Sofya  was  on 
the  point  of  rising.  But  Varvara  begged  her  to 
continue  the  waltz,  stepped  up  to  PasynkofF,  and, 

82 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

extending  her  hand,  said  with  an  awkward 
grin:  "Will  you?"  PasynkofF  was  astounded, but 
sprang  to  his  feet  nevertheless, — he  was  always 
distinguished  for  his  refined  courtesy, — took  Var- 
vara  round  the  waist,  but  slipped  at  the  very  first 
step,  and  hastily  freeing  himself  from  his  lady, 
rolled  straight  under  the  pedestal  on  which  stood 
the  parrot's  cage.  .  .  .  The  cage  fell,  the  parrot 
was  frightened,  and  began  to  shriek :  "  Po-li-iice ! " 
A  universal  roar  of  laughter  rang  out.  .  .  . 
Zlotnitzky  made  his  appearance  on  the  thresh- 
old of  his  study,  gave  a  surly  stare,  and  clapped 
to  the  door.  From  that  time  forth,  all  that  was 
necessary  was  to  allude  to  this  incident  in  Var- 
vara's  presence,  and  she  would  forthwith  begin 
to  laugh,  with  an  expression  on  her  face,  as  she 
glanced  at  PasynkofF,  which  seemed  to  say  that 
nothing  more  clever  than  what  he  had  done  on 
that  occasion  could  possibly  be  devised. 

PasynkofF  was  extremely  fond  of  music.  He 
frequently  asked  Sofya  to  play  something  for 
him,  seated  himself  a  little  apart,  and  listened, 
from  time  to  time  chiming  in  with  his  thin  voice 
on  the  tender  notes.  He  was  especially  fond 
of  Schubert's  "  The  Constellations."  He  de- 
clared that  when  "  The  Constellations "  was 
played  in  his  presence,  it  always  seemed  to  him 
as  though,  along  with  the  sounds,  some  long,  sky- 
blue  rays  poured  down  from  on  high,  straight 
into  his  breast.    To  this  day,  at  the  sight  of  the 

83 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

cloudless  sky  at  night,  with  its  softly-twinkling 
stars,  I  always  recall  that  melody  of  Schubert 
and  PasynkofF.  ...  A  certain  stroll  in  the  sub- 
urbs also  recurs  to  my  mind.  The  whole  com- 
pany of  us  had  driven  out  in  two  double-seated, 
hired  carriages,  to  Pargolovo.*  I  remember  that 
we  got  the  carriages  in  Vladimir  street;  they 
were  very  old,  light-blue  in  colour,  mounted  on 
round  springs,  with  broad  boxes  for  the  coach- 
men, and  tufts  of  hay  inside;  the  dark-bay, 
broken-winded  horses  drew  us  along  at  a  ponder- 
ous trot,  each  limping  on  a  different  foot.  For 
a  long  time  we  roamed  through  the  pine  groves 
surrounding  Pargolovo,  drank  milk  from  earthen 
jugs,  and  ate  strawberries  and  sugar.  The  wea- 
ther was  splendid.  Varvara  was  not  fond  of 
walking  much:  she  soon  wearied;  but  on  this  oc- 
casion she  did  not  lag  behind  us.  She  took  off  her 
hat,  her  hair  fell  out  of  curl,  her  heavy  features 
grew  animated,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  crimson. 
On  encountering  two  peasant  maidens  in  the  for- 
est, she  suddenly  seated  herself  on  the  ground, 
called  them  to  her,  and  did  not  caress  them,  but 
made  them  sit  down  beside  her.  Sofya  stared  at 
them  from  afar  with  a  cold  smile,  and  did  not 
approach  them.  She  was  walking  with  AsanoiF, 
while  Zlotnitzky  remarked  that  Varvara  was  a 

1  A  Finnish  village,  situated  a  little  more  than  ten  miles  north  of 
St.  Petersburg.  There  are  many  summer  villas,  and  numbers  of  the 
former  dwellings  of  the  Finns  have  been  converted  into  summer  resi- 
dences by  literary  and  artistic  people. —Trakslator. 

84 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

regular  setting  hen.  Varvara  rose  and  walked 
on.  In  the  course  of  the  stroll  she  approached 
PasynkofF  several  times  and  said  to  him;  "  Ya- 
koff  Ivanitch,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you," 
— but  what  she  wanted  to  say  to  him  remained  a 
secret. 

However,  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  return  to  my 
story. 

I  WAS  delighted  at  Pasynkoff 's  arrival ;  but  I  re- 
called what  I  had  done  on  the  preceding  day;  I 
felt  inexpressibly  conscience-stricken,  and  has- 
tily turned  my  face  to  the  wall  again.  After 
waiting  awhile,  YakofF  asked  me  if  I  were  well. 

"  Yes," — I  replied  through  my  teeth: — "  only, 
my  head  aches." 

Yakoff  made  no  reply,  and  picked  up  a  book. 
More  than  an  hour  passed ;  I  was  already  on  the 
point  of  making  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole  thing 
to  YakofF  .  .  .  when,  suddenly,  the  bell  in  the 
anteroom  began  to  ring. 

The  door  on  the  staircase  opened.  .  .  I  listened. 
....  AsanofF  was  asking  my  man  whether  I 
was  at  home. 

PasynkofF  rose;  he  did  not  like  AsanofF,  and 
whispering  to  me  that  he  would  go  and  lie  down 
on  my  bed,  he  betook  himself  to  my  sleeping- 
room. 

A  minute  later,  Asanoff  entered. 

From  his  flushed  face,  from  his  curt  and  dry 

85 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

bow  alone,  I  divined  that  he  had  not  come  to  me 
for  any  ordinary  call.  "  What  's  in  the  wind?  " 
I  thought. 

"  My  dear  sir,"— he  began,  swiftly  seating 
himself  in  an  arm-chair,—"  I  have  presented  my- 
self to  you  for  the  purpose  of  having  you  solve 
for  me  a  certain  doubt." 

"  What  is  it,  precisely?  " 

"  This :  I  wish  to  know  whether  you  are  an 
honourable  man? " 

I  flared  up. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "—I  asked. 

"  This  is  what  it  means,"  ....  he  returned, 
pronouncing  each  word  with  clear-cut  distinct- 
ness: "  Yesterday  evening  I  showed  you  a  wallet 
containing  the  letters  of  a  certain  person  to  me. 
....  To-day  you  have  repeated  to  that  person 
with  reproach, — observe,  with  reproach, — several 
expressions  from  those  letters,  without  having  the 
slightest  right  to  do  so.  I  wish  to  know  how  you 
will  explain  this  ?  " 

"  And  I  wish  to  know,  what  right  you  have  to 
catechise  me?" — I  replied,  trembling  all  over 
with  rage  and  inward  shame.  — "  Why  did  you 
brag  of  your  uncle,  of  your  correspondence? 
What  had  I  to  do  with  that  ?  All  your  letters  are 
intact,  are  n't  they?  " 

"  The  letters  are  intact ;  but  I  was  in  such  a  con- 
dition last  night  that  you  might  easily  have  .  .  .  ." 

"  In  short,  my  dear  sir,"- 1  interposed,  inten- 

86 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

tionally  speaking  as  loudly  as  I  could,—"  I  re- 
quest you  to  leave  me  in  peace,  do  you  hear?  I 
don't  want  to  know  anything  about  it,  and  I  shall 
explain  nothing  to  you.  Go  to  that  person  for 
explanations!"  (I  felt  my  head  beginning  to 
reel. ) 

AsanofF  darted  at  me  a  glance  to  which  he, 
obviously,  endeavoured  to  impart  an  expression 
of  sneering  penetration,  plucked  at  his  moustache, 
and  rose  without  haste. 

"  I  know  now  what  I  am  bound  to  think,"— 
said  he:— "your  face  is  the  best  proof  against 
you.  But  I  must  observe  to  you  that  well-bred 
persons  do  not  behave  in  this  manner.  .  .  .  To 
read  a  letter  by  stealth,  and  then  to  go  to  a  well- 
born young  girl  and  worry  her  is  .  .  .  ." 

"  Go  to  the  devil!  " — I  shouted,  stamping  my 
foot:  — "  and  send  your  second  to  me;  I  have  no 
intention  of  discussing  the  matter  with  you." 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  not  instruct  me," — re- 
torted AsanofF,  coldly:— "and  I  was  intending 
to  send  my  second  to  you." 

He  went  away.  I  fell  back  on  the  divan,  and 
covered  my  eyes  with  my  hands.  Some  one 
touched  me  on  the  shoulder ;  I  removed  my  hands 
—  in  front  of  me  stood  Pasynkoff. 

"What  is  this?  Is  it  true?"  ...  he  asked 
me.—"  Hast  thou  read  another  person's  letter?  " 

I  had  not  the  strength  to  answer  him,  but 
nodded  my  head  affirmatively. 

87 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Pasynkoff  walked  to  the  window,  and,  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  me,  said  slowly:  "  Thou  hast 
read  a  letter  from  a  young  girl  to  AsanofF.  Who 
is  the  girl? " 

"  Sofya  Zlotnitzky," — I  replied,  as  a  con- 
demned man  answers  his  judge. 

For  a  long  time  Pasynkoff  did  not  utter,  a 
word. 

"  Passion  alone  can  excuse  thee,  to  a  certain 
extent," — he  began,  at  last. — "Art  thou  in  love 
with  Miss  2^otnitzky? " 

"  Yes." 

Again  Pasynkoif  held  his  peace  for  a  while. 

"  I  thought  so.  And  to-day  thou  didst  go  to 
her  and  begin  to  upbraid  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  .  ..."  I  said  in  desperation. — 
"  Now  thou  mayest  despise  me.  .  .  ." 

Pasynkoff  paced  up  and  down  the  room  a  cou- 
ple of  times. 

"  And  does  she  love  him?  " — he  asked. 

"  She  does.  .  .  ." 

Pasynkoif  dropped  his  eyes,  and  stared  for  a 
long  time  immovably  at  the  floor. 

"  Well,  this  must  be  put  right," — he  began, 
raising  his  head: — "things  cannot  be  left  like 
this." 

And  he  picked  up  his  hat. 

"  Whither  art  thou  going?  " 

"  To  AsanofF." 

I  sprang  from  the  divan. 

88 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  But  I  will  not  permit  thee.  Good  heavens! 
how  canst  thou  do  so?  !    What  will  he  think?  " 

Pasynkoff  cast  a  glance  at  me. 

"  And  is  it  better,  in  thy  opinion,  to  let  his  folly 
proceed,  to  ruin  thyself,  and  disgrace  the  girl?  " 
,  ."  But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  Asanoff  ?  " 

"  I  shall  try  to  bring  him  to  his  senses;  I  shall 
say  that  thou  dost  beg  his  pardon.  .  .  ." 

"  But  I  won't  beg  his  pardon!  " 

"  Thou  wilt  not?    Art  not  thou  guilty?  " 

I  looked  at  Pasynkoff:  the  calm  and  stern 
though  sad  expression  of  his  face  impressed  me; 
it  was  a  new  one  to  me.  I  made  no  reply,  and  sat 
down  on  the  divan. 

Pasynkoff  left  the  room. 

With  what  torturing  anguish  did  I  wait  his  re- 
turn !  With  what  cruel  sluggishness  did  the  time 
pass!    At  last  he  returned — late. 

"  Well,  how  are  things?  " 

"God  be  thanked!"— he  replied.— "  Every- 
thing is  made  up." 

"  Hast  thou  been  to  AsanofF?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  Well,  how  about  him?  He  made  wry  faces, 
I  suppose," — I  said  with  an  effort. 

"  No,  I  will  not  say  that.  I  expected  more. 
....  He  ....  is  not  the  vulgar  man  I  had 
thought  him." 

"  Well,  and  hast  thou  not  been  to  see  any  one 
except  him?  " — I  asked,  after  waiting  a  little. 

89 


i* 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  have  been  to  see  the  Zlotnitzkys." 
Ah!"  ....    (My  heart  began  to  beat  vio- 
lently.   I  did  not  dare  to  look  PasynkofF  in  the 
eye.)  — "  Well,  and  how  about  her?  " 

"  Sofya  Nikolaevna  is  a  sensible  girl,  a  kind- 
hearted  girl.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  is  a  good  girl.  At 
first  it  was  awkward  for  her,  but  afterward  she 
recovered  her  composure.  However,  our  entire 
conversation  did  not  last  more  than  five  minutes." 

"  And  didst  thou  ....  tell  her  ....  every- 
thing ....  about  me?" 

"  I  told  her  what  was  necessary." 

"  Henceforth,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  to  see 
them!" — I  said  dejectedly.  .  .  . 

"Why  not?  Yes,  yes;  thou  mayest  occasion- 
ally. On  the  contrary,  thou  must  call  on  them, 
without  fail,  lest  they  should  imagine  some- 
thing. .  .  ." 

"  Akh,  Yakoff,  thou  wilt  despise  me  now!  " — I 
exclaimed,  hardly  restraining  my  tears. 

"I?  Despise  thee?"  .  .  .  (His  affectionate 
eyes  warmed  up  with  love.)  — "Despise  thee  .... 
stupid  man!  Was  it  easy  for  thee,  pray?  Didst 
not  thou  suffer? " 

He  extended  his  hand  to  me;  I  rushed  to  him 
and  fell,  sobbing,  on  his  neck. 

After  the  lapse  of  several  days,  in  the  course 
of  which  I  was  able  to  observe  that  PasynkofF 
was  very  much  out  of  sorts,  I  finally  made  up  my 

90 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

mind  to  call  on  the  Zlotnitzkys.  It  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  convey  in  words  what  I  felt  when  I  en- 
tered their  drawing-room.  I  remember  that  I 
could  barely  distinguish  faces,  and  that  my  voice 
broke  in  my  throat.  And  Sofya  was  no  more  at 
ease  than  I  was:  she  evidently  forced  herself  to 
converse  with  me,  but  her  eyes  avoided  mine  just 
as  my  eyes  avoided  hers,  and  in  her  every  move- 
ment, in  her  whole  being,  there  peered  forth  con- 
straint, mingled  with  .  .  .  why  conceal  the  truth? 
.  .  .  with  a  secret  repulsion.  I  endeavoured  as 
speedily  as  possible,  to  free  both  her  and  myself 
from  such  painful  sensations.  This  meeting  was, 
happily,  the  last  ....  before  her  marriage.  A 
sudden  change  in  my  fate  took  me  to  the  other 
end  of  Russia,  and  I  bade  farewell  for  a  long 
time  to  Petersburg,  to  the  Zlotnitzky  family,  and, 
what  was  more  painful  to  me  than  all  else,  to 
kind  YakoiF  Pasynkoff . 

II 

Seven  years  elapsed.  I  do  not  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  relate  precisely  what  happened  to  me  in 
the  course  of  all  that  time.  I  wore  myself  out 
with  travelling  all  over  Russia;  I  went  into  the 
wilds  and  the  remote  parts — and,  thank  God!  the 
wilds  and  the  remote  parts  are  not  so  dreadful 
as  some  people  think,  and  in  the  most  hidden 
nooks  of  the  forest,  dreaming  in  primeval  dense- 

91 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

ness,  under  fallen  trees  and  thickets,  grow  fra- 
grant flowers. 

One  da}^  in  spring,  as  I  was  passing,  on  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  service,  through  the  small 
county  town  of  one  of  the  remote  Governments 
of  eastern  Russia,  thi'ough  the  dim  little  win- 
dow of  my  tarantas  I  caught  sight  of  a  man 
on  the  square,  in  front  of  a  shop,— a  man  whose 
face  seemed  extremely  familiar  to  me.  I  took 
a  second  look  at  this  man  and,  to  my  no  small 
dehght,  recognised  in  him  Ehsyei,  PasjmkofF's 
servant. 

I  immediately  ordered  my  postilion  to  halt, 
sprang  out  of  the  tarantas,  and  approached 
Elisyei. 

"  Good  morning,  brother!  "—I  said,  with  diffi- 
culty concealing  my  agitation:— "  art  thou  here 
with  thy  master? " 

"  Yes,"— he  replied  slowly,  then  suddenly  cried 
out:— "  Akh,  dear  little  father,  is  it  you?  And 
I  did  n't  recognise  you!  " 

"  Art  thou  here  with  YakofF  Ivanitch?  " 

"  I  am,  dear  little  father,  I  am.  .  .  .  And  with 
whom  else  should  I  be?  " 

*'  Lead  me  to  him  as  speedily  as  possible." 

"  Certainly,  certainly !  This  way,  please,  this 
way.  .  .  .  We  are  stopping  here  in  the  inn." 

And  Elisyei  conducted  me  across  the  square, 
incessantly  repeating:  "  Well,  and  how  delighted 
Yakoff  Ivanitch  will  be!" 

92 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

This  Elisyei,  of  Kalmyk  extraction,  a  man  of 
extremely  hideous  and  even  fierce  aspect,  but  the 
kindest  of  souls,  and  far  from  stupid,  was  pas- 
sionately attached  to  PasynkofF,  and  had  been 
in  his  service  for  ten  years. 

"  How  is  YakoiF  Ivanitch's  health?  "—I  asked 
him. 

EHsyei  turned  toward  me  his  small,  dark-yel- 
low face. 

"  Akh,  dear  little  father,  't  is  bad  .  .  .  bad, 
dear  little  father!  You  will  not  recognise  him. 
...  I  don't  believe  he  has  long  to  live  in  this 
world.  That 's  the  reason  we  settled  down  here, 
for  we  were  on  our  way  to  Odessa  for  the  cure."  ^ 

"  Whence  come  you?  " 

"  From  Siberia,  dear  little  father." 

"From  Siberia?" 

"  Just  so,  sir.  Yakoff  Ivanitch  has  been  in  the 
service  there.  And  it  was  there  he  received  his 
wound,  sir." 

"  Has  he  been  in  the  military  service? " 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  He  was  in  the  civil  service, 
sir." 

"  What  marvels  are  these?  !  "  I  thought.  In 
the  meantime,  we  had  drawn  near  the  inn,  and 
Elisyei  ran  on  ahead  to  announce  me.  During 
the  first  years  of  our  separation,  Pasynkoff  and  I 
had  written  to  each  other  pretty  frequently,  but 

^  The  famous  salt-water  and  mud  baths  in  the  vicinity 
of  Odessa.— Thaxslator. 

93 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  had  received  his  last  letter  four  years  previous 

to  this,  and  from  that  time  onward  had  known 

nothing  about  him. 

"  Please  come  in,  sir;  please  come  in,  sir! " — 

Elisyei    shouted    to    me    from    the    staircase: — 

"  Yakoff  Ivanitch  is  very  anxious  to  see  you, 
sir. 

I  ran  hastily  up  the  rickety  stairs,  entered  a 
dark  little  room— and  my  heart  sank  within  me. 
....  On  a  narrow  bed,  under  his  uniform  cloak, 
pale  as  death,  lay  Pasynkoff ,  stretching  out  to  me 
his  bare,  emaciated  hand.  I  rushed  to  him  and 
clasped  him  in  a  convulsive  embrace. 

"Yasha!"— I  cried  at  last:-"  What  ails 
thee? " 

"  Nothing,"— he  replied  in  a  weak  voice.—"  I 
am  not  very  well.  How  in  the  world  do  you  come 
to  be  here?  '* 

I  sat  down  on  a  chair  beside  Pas5Tikoff's  bed 
and,  without  releasing  his  hands  from  mine,  I 
began  to  gaze  into  his  face.  I  recognised  the  fea- 
tures which  were  so  dear  to  me:  the  expression 
of  his  eyes  and  his  smile  had  not  changed,  but 
how  sickness  had  altered  him! 

He  noticed  the  impression  which  he  produced 
on  me. 

"  I  have  not  shaved  for  three  days,"— he  said: 
— "  well,  and  my  hair  is  not  brushed  either,  but 
otherwise  I  ....  I  'm  all  right." 

"  Tell  me,  please,  Yasha,"— I  began:—"  what 

94 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

is  this  Elisyei  has  been  teUing  me.  .  .  .  Thou  art 
wounded? " 

"  Ah!  yes;  that  's  a  whole  history  in  itself,"— 
he  rephed.— "  I  '11  tell  thee  about  that  later  on. 
I  really  was  wounded,  and  just  fancy  by  what? 
An  arrow." 

"  An  arrow? " 

"  Yes,  an  arrow;  only  not  the  mythological  one, 
not  the  dart  of  love,  but  a  real  arrow  made  from 
some  extremely  supple  wood,  with  an  artful  sharp 
tip  on  the  end. . .  .  Such  an  arrow  produces  a  very 
unpleasant  sensation,  especially  when  it  lands  in 
the  lungs." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen?    Good  gracious.  .  . ." 

"  This  way.  As  thou  knowest,  there  has  always 
been  a  great  deal  that  was  ridiculous  about  my 
fate.  Dost  thou  remember  my  comical  correspon- 
dence in  connection  with  demanding  my  papers? 
Well,  and  so  I  was  wounded  in  an  absurd  way 
also.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  what  well-bred 
man,  in  our  enlightened  century,  permits  himself 
to  deal  wounds  with  an  arrow?  And  not  acci- 
dentally— observe,  not  during  some  games  or 
other,  but  in  conflict." 

"  Yes;  but  still  thou  dost  not  tell  me.  .  .  ." 

*'  Here  now,  wait  a  bit,"— he  interrupted.— 
"  Thou  knowest  that  shortly  after  thy  departure 
from  Petersburg,  I  was  transferred  to  Novgorod. 
I  spent  quite  a  long  time  in  Novgorod,  and,  I 
must  confess  that  I  was  bored,  although  I  did 

95 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

meet  there  a  certain  being.  .  .  ."  (He  heaved  a 
sigh)  .  .  .  .  "  But  there  's  no  time  to  go  into 
that  now;  but  a  couple  of  years  ago  a  splendid 
little  post  fell  to  my  lot,  a  trifle  distant,  't  is  true, 
in  the  Government  of  Irkutsk,  but  what  's  the 
harm  in  that!  Evidently,  it  was  written  in  my 
father's  fate  and  in  mine  that  we  should  visit  Si- 
beria. A  glorious  land  is  Siberia!  Rich  and 
fertile,  as  any  one  will  tell  you.  I  hked  it  very 
much  there.  The  natives  of  foreign  stock  were 
under  my  authority ;  a  peaceable  folk ;  but  to  my 
misfortune  a  score  of  their  men,  no  more,  took 
it  into  their  heads  to  smuggle  contraband  goods. 
I  was  sent  to  seize  them.  So  far  as  seizing  them 
is  concerned,  I  eiFected  that,  but  one  of  them, 
out  of  caprice,  it  must  have  been,  tried  to  defend 
himself,  and  treated  me  to  that  arrow.  ,  .  .  I 
came  near  dying,  but  recovered.  And  now  here  I 
am  on  my  way  to  make  a  final  cure.  .  .  The  au- 
thorities have  given  the  money, — may  God  grant 
them  all  health!" 

Pasynkoff ,  completely  exhausted,  dropped  his 
head  on  the  pillow,  and  ceased  speaking.  A  faint 
flush  spread  over  his  cheeks.    He  closed  his  eyes. 

"  He  cannot  talk  much,"— said  Elisyei,  who 
had  not  left  the  room,  in  an  undertone. 

"  Here  now," — he  went  on,  opening  his  eyes: — 
"  I  must  have  caught  cold.  The  local  district  doc- 
tor is  attending  me, — thou  wilt  see  him;  he  ap- 
pears to  know  his  business.     But  I  am  glad  it 

96 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

has  happened,  because,  otherwise,  how  could  I 
have  met  thee?"  (And  he  clasped  my  hand. 
His  hand,  which  shortly  before  had  been  as  cold 
as  ice,  was  now  burning  hot.)  — "  Tell  me  some- 
thing about  thj^self," — he  began  again,  throwing 
his  cloak  off  his  breast: — "  for  God  knows  when 
we  shall  see  each  other  again." 

I  hastened  to  comply  with  his  wish,  if  only  to 
prevent  his  talking,  and  began  my  narration.  At 
first  he  listened  to  me  with  great  attention,  then 
asked  for  a  drink,  then  began  to  close  his  eyes 
again  and  to  throw  his  head  about  on  the  pillow. 
I  advised  him  to  take  a  little  nap,  adding  that  I 
would  not  proceed  further  until  he  should  re- 
cover, and  would  establish  myself  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room. 

"  Things  are  very  wretched  here,"  ....  Pa- 
synkofF  was  beginning;  but  I  stopped  his  mouth 
and  softl}^  left  the  room.  Elisyei  followed  me 
out. 

"  What 's  the  meaning  of  this,  Elisyei?  Why, 
he  is  dying,  is  n't  he?  " — I  asked  the  faithful  ser- 
vant. 

Elisyei  merely  waved  his  hand  in  despair,  and 
turned  away. 

Having  dismissed  my  postilion,  and  hastily  es- 
tablished myself  in  the  adjoining  room,  I  went 
to  see  whether  PasynkofF  had  fallen  asleep.  At 
his  door  I  collided  with  a  tall,  very  fat  and  heavy 
man.    His  puffy,  pock-marked  face  expressed  in- 

97 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

dolence— and  nothing  else,  his  tiny  eyes  were  all 
but  closed,  and  his  lips  glistened  as  though  after 
sleep. 

"  Allow  me  to  inquire,"— I  asked  him,  "  whe- 
ther you  are  not  the  doctor?  " 

The  fat  man  looked  at  me,  after  having,  with 
an  effort  elevated  his  overhanging  forehead  with 
his  eyebrows. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  Will  not  you  do  me  the  favour  to  come  this 
way  to  my  room,  doctor  ?  I  think  Yakoff  Ivanitch 
is  asleep  at  present.  I  am  his  friend,  and  I  should 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  you  about  his  malady, 
which  causes  me  great  anxiety." 

"  Very  good,  sir,"— replied  the  doctor,  with  an 
expression  which  seemed  to  say:  "What  in  the 
world  possesses  you  to  talk  so  much?  I  would 
have  gone  any  way,"  and  followed  me. 

"  Tell  me,  please,"— I  began,  as  soon  as  he 
had  dropped  down  on  a  chair:  "  is  my  friend's 
condition  dangerous?    What  do  you  think?  " 

"  Yes,"— calmly  replied  the  fat  man. 

"  And  ....  is  it  very  critical?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  So  that  he  may  even  ....  die?  " 

"  Yes." 

I  must  confess  that  I  gazed  at  my  interlocutor 
almost  with  hatred. 

"  Good  gracious!  "—I  began:  "  then  we  must 
resort  to  some  measures,  call  a  consultation,  or 

98 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

something.  .  .  .  Why,  things  cannot  be  left  in 
this  condition.  .  .  Good  heavens!" 

"A  consultation? — That  can  be  done.  Why 
not?    We  might  call  in  Ivan  Efremitch.  .  .  ." 

The  doctor  spoke  with  difficulty,  and  sighed 
incessantly.  His  belly  heaved  visibly,  when  he 
spoke,  as  though  ejecting  every  word  with  an 
effort. 

"  W^ho  is  Ivan  Efremitch?  " 

"  The  town  doctor." 

"  Would  n't  it  be  better  to  send  to  the  capital 
of  the  government — what  think  you?  There  cer- 
tainly must  be  good  physicians  there." 

"Why  not?    We  might  do  that." 

"  And  who  is  considered  to  be  the  best  physician 
there? " 

"  The  best?  There  was  a  Dr.  Kohlrabus  there 
....  only,  I  —  I  rather  think  he  has  been  trans- 
ferred somewhere  else.  However,  I  must  confess 
that  there  is  no  necessity  for  sending." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Even  the  governmental  doctor  cannot  help 
your  friend." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  he  is  as  bad  as  that?  " 

"  Yes,  exactly  that;  he  's  done  for." 

"  What,  in  particular,  is  his  ailment? " 

"  He  has  received  a  wound.  .  .  The  lungs  have 
been  injured,  you  know.  .  .  Well,  and  then  he 
has  caught  cold,  and  fever  has  set  in  ...  .  well, 
and  so  forth.  .  .  And  he  has  no  reserve  force.    A 

99 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

man  can't  recover  without  reserve  force,  as  you 
know  yourself." 

We  both  remained  silent  for  a  while. 

"  We  might  try  homeopathy,"— said  the  fat 
man,  darting  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 

"  Homeopathy?  Why,  you  are  an  allopath, 
are  you  not?  " 

"  Well,  and  what  if  I  am  an  allopath!  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  about  homeopathy?  Just  as 
well  as  anybody.  Our  apothecary  here  gives 
homeopathic  treatment,  and  he  has  no  learned 
degree." 

"  Well!  "—I  said  to  myself:  "  things  are  in  a 
bad  way!  ....  No,  doctor,"  I  said:  "you  had 
better  treat  him  by  your  usual  method." 

"  As  you  like,  sir." 

The  fat  man  rose,  and  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Are  you  going  to  him?  "—I  inquired. 

"  Yes;  I  must  take  a  look  at  him." 

And  he  left  the  room. 

I  did  not  follow  him.  It  was  more  than  my 
strength  would  bear  to  see  him  at  the  bedside  of 
my  poor  friend.  I  called  my  man  and  ordered 
him  to  drive  immediately  to  the  capital  of  the 
government,  and  inquire  there  for  the  best  phy- 
sician, and  bring  him,  without  fail.  There  came 
a  rapping  in  the  corridor;  I  opened  the  door 
quickly. 

The  doctor  had  already  come  out  of  Pasyn- 
kofF's  room. 

100 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  Well,  how  is  he?  "—I  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"  All  right;  I  have  prescribed  a  potion." 

"  I  have  decided,  doctor,  to  send  to  the  govern- 
ment town.  I  do  not  doubt  j^our  skill;  but  you 
know  yourself  that  two  heads  are  better  than 
one." 

"Very  well,  that  's  laudable!  "—returned  the 
fat  man,  and  began  to  descend  the  stairs.  Evi- 
dently, I  bored  him. 

I  went  to  Pasynkoff . 

"  Hast  thou  seen  the  local  iEsculapius?  " — he 
asked  me. 

"  Yes,"-I  replied. 

"  What  I  like  about  him," — remarked  Pasyn- 
koff,— "  is  his  wonderful  composure.  A  doctor 
ought  to  be  phlegmatic,  ought  n't  he?  That  is 
very  encouraging  for  the  patient." 

As  a  matter  of  course,  I  did  not  attempt  to 
persuade  him  to  the  contrary. 

Toward  evening,  contrary  to  my  anticipations, 
Pasynkoff  felt  more  at  ease.  He  requested  Eli- 
syei  to  prepare  the  samovar,  announced  that  he 
was  going  to  treat  me  to  tea,  and  would  drink  a 
cup  himself,  and  he  was  perceptibly  more  cheer- 
ful. Nevertheless,  I  endeavoured  to  prevent  his 
talking;  and  perceiving  that  he  was  absolutely  de- 
termined not  to  be  quiet,  I  asked  him  if  he  did 
not  wish  me  to  read  something  aloud  to  him. 

"  As  we  used  to  do  at  Winterkeller's— dost 
thou  remember?" — he  replied:  "  Certainly,  with 

101 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

pleasure.    What  shall  we  read?    Look  over  my 
books,  yonder  on  the  window-sill.  ..." 

I  went  to  the  window  and  took  up  the  first  book 
which  came  to  hand.  .  .  . 

"  What  is  that?  "—he  asked. 

"  LermontofF." 

"  Ah,  Lermontoff !  Very  good  indeed!  Push- 
kin is  higher,  of  course.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  remem- 
ber :  '  Again  the  storm-clouds  over  me  have  gath- 
ered in  the  gloom,'  ....  or:  '  For  the  last  time 
thine  image  dear,  I  dare  caress  in  mind.'  Akh, 
how  wonderfully  fine!  wonderfully  fine!  But 
LermontofF  is  good  also.  Come  here,  brother, 
take  and  open  the  book  at  haphazard,  and  read!  " 

I  opened  the  book  and  was  disconcerted ;  I  had 
hit  upon  "  The  Testament."  I  tried  to  turn  over 
the  leaf,  but  Pasynkoff  noticed  my  movement, 
and  said  hastily:  "No,  no,  no!  Read  where  it 
opened." 

There  was  no  help  for  it;  I  read  "  The  Testa- 
ment." 

"A  splendid  thing!" — remarked  Pasynkoff, 
as  soon  as  I  had  uttered  the  last  line. — "  A  splen- 
did thing!  But  it  is  strange," — he  added,  after 
a  brief  pause, — "  it  is  strange  that  thou  shouldst 
have  hit  upon  '  The  Testament,'  of  all  things.  .  .  . 
Strange !  " 

I  began  to  read  another  poem,  but  Pasynkoff 
did  not  listen  to  me,  gazed  to  one  side,  and  re- 
peated "  strange!  "  a  couple  of  times  more. 

102 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  dropped  the  book  on  my  knees. 

"  '  They  have  a  little  neighbour,'  " — he  whis- 
pered, and  suddenly  turning  to  me,  he  asked: 
"  Dost  thou  remember  Sofya  Zlotnitzky?  " 

I  flushed  scarlet. 

."  How  can  I  help  remembering?  !  " 

"  She  married,  did  n't  she? "... 

"  Yes;  she  married  AsanofF,  long  ago.  I  wrote 
thee  about  that." 

"  Exactly,  exactly  so,  thou  didst  write.  Did 
her  father  forgive  her  in  the  end?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  he  would  not  receive  AsanofF." 

"  The  stubborn  old  man !  Well,  and  what  dost 
thou  hear  about  it?    Do  they  live  happily?  " 

"  I  really  do  not  know.  ...  I  think  they  do. 
They  are  living  in  the  country,  in  the  ***  Gov- 
ernment ;  I  have  not  seen  them ;  but  I  have  driven 
past." 

"  And  have  they  children?  " 

"  I  believe  so.  .  .  By  the  way,  PasynkofF?  "—I 
asked. 

He  glanced  at  me. 

"  Confess, — I  remember  that  thou  wouldst 
not  answer  my  question  at  the  time;  thou  didst 
tell  her  that  I  was  in  love  with  her,  didst  thou 
not?  " 

"  I  told  her  everything,  the  whole  truth.  .  .  I 
always  spoke  the  truth  to  her.  To  have  concealed 
anything  from  her  would  have  been  a  sin  I " 

PasynkofF  ceased  speaking. 

103 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  Come,  tell  me,"— he  began  again:  "  didst  thou 
get  over  thy  love  for  her  promptly  or  not? " 

"Not  very  promptly;  but  I  did  get  over  it. 
What  's  the  use  of  sighing  in  vain?  " 

Pasynkoff  turned  his  face  toward  me. 

"  But  I,  my  dear  fellow,"— he  began,  and  his 
lips  quivered,—"  am  no  match  for  thee ;  I  have  n't 
got  over  my  love  for  her  to  this  day." 

"What!"— I  exclaimed  with  inexpressible 
amazement.—"  Wert  thou  in  love  with  her?  " 

"  I  was,"— said  Pasynkoff,  slowly,  raising 
both  hands  to  his  head.—"  How  I  loved  her  God 
alone  knows.  I  never  spoke  of  it  to  any  one  in 
the  world,  and  never  meant  to  mention  it  to  any 
one  ....  but  it  has  come  out!  '  I  have  but  a 
brief  while  to  live  in  this  world,'  they  say.  .  .  . 
So  it  does  not  matter!  " 

PasynkofF's  unexpected  confession  astounded 
me  to  such  a  degree  that  I  was  positively 
unable  to  utter  a  word,  and  merely  thought: 
"  Is  it  possible?  how  is  it  that  I  did  not  suspect 
this?" 

"  Yes,"— he  went  on,  as  though  talking  to  him- 
self:—" I  loved  her.  I  did  not  cease  to  love  her, 
even  when  I  learned  that  her  heart  belonged  to 
Asanoff.  But  it  pained  me  to  learn  that!  If  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  thee,  I  would,  at  all  events, 
have  rejoiced  on  thy  account;  but  Asanoff.  .  .  . 
How  could  he  please  her?  It  was  his  luck!  And 
she  was  not  able  to  be  unfaithful  to  her  feeling, 

104 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

to  cease  to  love  him.  An  honourable  soul  does 
not  change.  ..." 

I  recalled  Asanoff's  visit  after  the  fatal  din- 
ner, PasynkoiF's  intervention,  and  involuntarily 
clasped  m}^  hands. 

"  Thou  didst  learn  all  that  from  me,  poor  fel- 
low!"—  I  exclaimed: — "and  thou  didst  take  it 
upon  thyself  to  go  to  her,  nevertheless!  " 

"Yes," — said  Pasynkoff: — "that  explanation 
with  her — I  shall  never  forget  it.  It  was  then  I 
learned,  it  was  then  I  understood  the  meaning 
of  the  motto  I  had  long  before  chosen  for  myself : 
'  Resignation.'  But  she  still  remained  my  con- 
stant dream,  my  ideal.  .  .  .  And  pitiable  is  he 
who  lives  without  an  ideal!  " 

I  glanced  at  Pasynkoff;  his  eyes  seemed  to  be 
fixed  on  the  distance,  and  blazed  with  a  feverish 
gleam. 

"I  loved  her,"— he  went  on:— "I  loved  her, 
her,  quiet,  honourable,  inaccessible,  incorruptible ; 
when  she  went  away,  I  became  nearly  crazed  with 
grief.  ...  I  have  never  loved  any  one  since. . .  ." 

And  suddenly,  turning  round,  he  pressed  his 
face  to  his  pillow,  and  fell  to  weeping  softly. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  bent  over  him,  and  began 
to  comfort  him.  .  .  . 

"  Never  mind,"— he  said,  raising  his  head,  and 
shaking  back  his  hair:—"  I  did  n't  mean  to  do 
it.  I  feel  rather  sad,  rather  sorry  ....  for  my- 
self, that  is  to  say.  .  .  .  But  it  is  of  no  conse- 

105 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

quence.  The  poetry  is  to  blame  for  it  all.  Read 
me  some  other  poems— something  more  cheerful." 
I  took  up  Lermontoff,  and  began  hastily  to 
turn  over  the  leaves;  but,  as  though  expressly,  I 
kept  hitting  upon  poems  which  might  again  agi- 
tate PasynkofF.  At  last  I  read  him  "  The  Gifts 
of  the  Terek." 

"Rhetorical  crackling!  "—remarked  my  poor 
friend,  in  the  tone  of  an  instructor:—"  but  there 
are  good  places!  I  tried  my  hand  at  poetry  my- 
self, my  dear  fellow,  in  thine  absence,  and  began 
a  poem:  '  The  Beaker  of  Life,'— but  it  came  to 
nothing!  my  business,  brother,  is  to  sympathise, 
not  to  create.  .  .  .  But  I  feel  tired,  somehow;  I 
believe  I  had  better  take  a  nap— what  dost  thou 
think  ?  What  a  splendid  thing  sleep  is,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it !  All  oui*  life  is  a  dream,  and 
the  best  thing  in  it  is  sleep." 
"  And  poetry?  "—I  asked. 
"  Poetry  is  a  dream  also,  only  a  dream  of  para- 
dise." 

Pasynkoff  closed  his  eyes. 
I  stood  for  a  while  beside  his  bed.  I  did  not 
think  that  he  could  get  to  sleep  quickly;  but  his 
breathing  became  more  even  and  prolonged.  I 
stole  out  of  the  room  on  tiptoe,  returned  to  my 
own  chv.„mber,  and  lay  down  on  the  divan.  For 
a  long  time  I  reflected  on  what  Pasynkoff  had 
told  me,  recalled  many  things,  marvelled,  and,  at 
last,  fell  asleep  myself.  .  .  . 

106 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Some  one  nudged  me :  before  me  stood  Elisyei. 

"  Please  come  to  my  master,"— he  said. 

I  rose  at  once. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him?  " 

"  He  is  dehrious." 

"  Dehrious?  And  he  has  not  been  so  before?  " 
'"Yes;  he  was  dehrious  last  night  also;  but 
somehow  it  is  dreadful  to-night." 

I  entered  Pasynkoff 's  room.  He  was  not  ly- 
ing on  his  bed,  but  sitting  up,  with  his  whole  body 
bent  forward,  softly  throwing  his  hands  apart, 
smiling  and  talking— talking  incessantly  in  a 
weak,  toneless  voice,  like  the  rustling  of  reeds. 
His  eyes  were  wandering.  The  melancholy  light 
of  the  night-taper,  placed  on  the  floor,  and 
screened  by  a  book,  lay  in  a  motionless  patch  on 
the  ceihng;  PasynkofF's  face  looked  paler  than 
ever  in  the  half  gloom. 

I  went  up  to  him,  called  him  by  name— he  did 
not  reply.  I  began  to  listen  to  his  mumblings: 
he  was  raving  about  Siberia,  about  its  forests.  At 
times  there  was  sense  in  his  ravings. 

"What  trees!"— he  whispered:  "they  reach 
to  the  very  sky.  Hov^  much  hoar-frost  there  is  on 
them!  Silver.  .  .  .  Snow-drifts And  yon- 
der are  little  tracks  ....  a  hare  has  leaped 
along,  or  a  white  ermine.  .  .  .  No,  it  is  my  fa- 
ther who  has  run  past  with  my  papers.  Yonder 
he  is!  .  .  .  Yonder  he  is!  I  must  go;  the  moon 
is  shining.    I  must  go  and  find  my  papers.  .  .  . 

107 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Ah,  a  flower,  a  scarlet  flower — Sofya  is  there.  . . . 
There,  little  bells  are  ringing,  oh,  it  is  the  frost 
ringing.  .  .  Akh,  no ;  it  is  the  stupid  bull-finches 
hopping  in  the  bushes,  and  whistling.  .  .  .  See 
the  red-breasted  warblers!  It  is  cold.  .  .  .  Ah! 
there  is  Asanofl*.  .  .  .  Akh,  j^es,  he  is  a  cannon, 
you  know — a  brass  cannon,  and  his  gun-carriage 
is  green.  That  is  why  he  pleases  people.  Was 
that  a  shooting-star?  No,  it  is  an  arrow  flying. 
....  Akh,  how  swiftlj^  and  straight  at  my 
heart!  ....  Who  is  that  shooting?  Thou,  S6- 
netchka?"  y 

He  bent  his  head  and  began  to  whisper  incoher- 
ent words.  I  glanced  at  Elisyei;  he  was  stand- 
ing with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  and 
gazing  compassionately  at  his  master. 

"  Well,  my  dear  fellow,  hast  thou  become  a 
practical  man?" — he  suddenly  inquired,  fixing 
on  me  a  glance  so  clear,  so  full  of  intelligence, 
that  I  gave  an  involuntary  start,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  answering,  but  he  immediately  went  on : 
— "  But  I,  brother,  have  not  become  a  practical 
man,  I  have  not  done  that  which  thou  wilt  do! 
I  was  born  a  dreamer,  a  dreamer!  Dreams, 
dreams.  .  .  .  What  is  a  dream?  Sobakevitch's 
peasant,— that  's  what  a  dream  is.    Okh!  .  .  .  ." 

Pasynkofl"  raved  until  nearly  daylight ;  at  last, 
he  quieted  down  a  little,  sank  back  on  his  pillow, 
and  fell  into  a  doze.    I  returned  to  my  own  room. 

108  i 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Exhausted  bj^  the  cruel  night,  I  fell  into  a  heavy 
slumber. 

Again  Elisyei  awakened  me. 

"  Akh,  dear  little  father!  "—he  said  to  me  in  a 
trembling  Aoice: — "I  believe  YakofF  Ivanitch  is 
dying.  .  .  ." 

I  ran  to  Pasynkoff .  He  was  lying  motionless. 
By  the  light  of  the  dawning  day,  he  already 
looked  like  a  corpse.    He  recognised  me. 

"Farewell," — he  whispered: — "remember  me 
to  her,  I  am  dying.  ..." 

"  Yasha!  "—I  cried:—"  don't  say  that!  Thou 
wilt  live.  ..." 

"  No;  what 's  the  use?  I  am  dying.  .  .  .  Here, 
take  this  in  memory  of  me  .  .  ."  (He  pointed  at 
his  breast.)    .... 

"  What  is  this?  "—he  suddenly  began  to  speak 
again: — "  Look!  the  sea  ....  all  golden;  on  it 
are  blue  islands,  marble  temples,  palms,  in- 
cense. .  .  ." 

He  fell  silent  ....  dropped  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  dead.  Elisyei  fell, 
weeping,  on  his  breast.     I  closed  his  eyes. 

On  his  neck  was  a  small  silken  amulet,  attached 
to  a  black  cord.    I  took  possession  of  it. 

On  the  third  day  he  was  buried.  .  .  .  The  no- 
blest of  hearts  had  vanished  forever  from  the 
world !  I  myself  flung  the  first  handful  of  earth 
on  him. 

109 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 


III 

Another  year  and  a  half  passed.  Business 
forced  me  to  go  to  Moscow.  I  established  my- 
self in  one  of  the  best  hotels  there.  One  day,  as 
I  was  passing  along  the  corridor,  I  glanced  at 
the  black-board  whereon  stood  the  names  of  trav- 
ellers, and  almost  cried  aloud  in  surprise:  op- 
posite No.  1  stood  the  name  of  Sofya  Nikolaevna 
Asanoff.  I  had  accidentally  heard  much  that 
was  evil  about  her  husband  of  late ;  I  had  learned 
that  he  had  become  passionately  addicted  to  li- 
quor and  cards;  had  ruined  himself,  and,  alto- 
gether, was  conducting  himself  badly.  People 
spoke  with  respect  of  his  wife.  .  .  .  Not  with- 
out agitation  did  I  return  to  my  own  room.  Pas- 
sion which  had  cooled  long,  long  ago,  seemed  to 
begin  to  stir  in  my  heart,  and  my  heart  began 
to  beat  violently.  I  decided  to  go  to  Sofya 
Nikolaevna.  "  What  a  long  time  has  passed 
since  the  day  we  parted,"  I  thought:  "she  has 
probably  forgotten  everything  which  took  place 
between  us  then." 

I  sent  to  her  Elisyei,  whom  I  had  taken  into 
my  service  after  PasynkofF's  death,  with  my 
visiting-card,  and  ordered  I  lim  to  inquire  whether 
she  was  at  home,  and  whcher  I  could  see  her. 
Elisyei  speedily  returned,  and  announced  that 

110 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  was  at  home,  and  would  re- 
ceive me. 

I  betook  myself  to  Sofya  Nikolaevna.  When 
I  entered,  she  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  taking  leave  of  some  tall,  stout  gentle- 
man or  other.  "As  you  like,"— he  was  saying, 
in  a  thick,  sibilant  voice:— "he  is  not  a  harm- 
less man,  he  is  a  useless  man;  and  every  useless 
man  in  well-regulated  society  is  harmful,  harm^ 
ful!" 

With  these  words,  the  tall  gentleman  left  the 
room.     Sofya  Nikolaevna  turned  to  me. 

"  What  a  long  time  it  is  since  we  metl  "—said 
she.—"  Sit  down,  I  beg  of  you.  .  .  ." 

We  sat  down.  I  looked  at  her.  .  .  .  To  be- 
hold, after  a  long  separation,  features  once  dear; 
to  recognise  them,  yet  not  to  recognise  them,  as 
though  through  the  former,  still  unforgotten  face, 
another  face— like,  yet  strange— had  emerged; 
momentarily,  almost  involuntarily  to  note  the 
traces  imposed  by  time, — all  this  is  sad  enough. 
"And  I,  also,  must  have  changed,"  one  thinks 
to  himself.  .  .  . 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  had  not  aged  greatly,  how- 
ever; but  when  I  had  seen  her  for  the  last  time, 
she  had  just  entered  her  seventeenth  year,  and 
nine  years  had  elapsed  since  that  day.  Her  fea- 
tures had  become  more  severe  and  regular  than 
ever.  As  of  old,  they  expressed  sincerity  of  feel- 
ing and  firmness;  but  in  place  of  their  former 

HI 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

composure,  a  certain  hidden  pain  and  anxiety 
was  manifested  in  them.  Her  eyes  had  grown 
deeper  and  darker.  She  had  come  to  resemble 
her  mother.  .  .  . 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  was  the  first  to  start  the  con- 
versation. 

"  We  are  both  changed," — she  began. — 
"  Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?  " 

"  I  have  been  wandering  about  here  and 
there,"  I  replied. — "And  have  you  been  living  in 
the  country  all  the  while? " 

"  Chiefly  in  the  country.  And  I  am  only  pass- 
ing through  here  now." 

"  How  are  your  parents?  " 

"  My  mother  is  dead,  but  my  father  is  still  in 
Petersburg;  my  brother  is  in  the  service;  Va- 
rya  lives  with  him." 

"  And  your  husband?  " 

"  My  husband?  "—she  said  in  a  somewhat  hur- 
ried voice:, — "  He  is  now  in  southern  Russia,  at 
the  fairs.  He  was  always  fond  of  horses,  as  you 
know,  and  he  has  set  up  a  stud-farm  of  his  own 
...  so,  for  that  purpose  ...  he  is  now  buying 
horses." 

At  that  moment  a  little  girl  of  eight  entered 
the  room,  with  her  hair  dressed  in  Chinese  fash- 
ion, a  very  sharp  and  vivacious  little  face,  and 
large,  dark-grey  eyes.  On  catching  sight  of  me, 
she  immediately  thrust  out  her  little  foot,  made 
a  swift  curtsey,  and  went  to  Sofya  Nikolaevna. 

112 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  Let  me  introduce  to  you  my  little  daughter," 
— said  Sofya  Nikolaevna,  touching  the  little  girl 
with  her  finger  under  her  chubby  chin: — "she 
would  not  consent  to  remain  at  home,  but  en- 
treated me  to  take  her  with  me." 

The  little  girl  swept  her  quick  eyes  over  me, 
and  frowned  slightly. 

"  She  's  my  fine,  courageous  girl," — went  on 
Sofya  Nikolaevna: — "  she  is  not  afraid  of  any- 
thing. And  she  studies  well;  I  must  praise  her 
for  that." 

"  Comment  se  nomme  monsieur?  " — inquired 
the  little  girl,  in  a  low  voice,  bending  toward  her 
mother. 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  mentioned  my  name. 
Again  the  little  girl  glanced  at  me. 

"  What  is  your  name?  " — I  asked  her. 

"  My  name  is  Lidiya," — replied  the  little  girl, 
looking  me  boldly  in  the  eye. 

"  They  spoil  you,  I  suppose," — I  remarked. 

"  Who  spoils  me?  " 

"  Who?  Why,  everybody,  I  suppose,  begin- 
ning with  your  parents."  (The  little  girl  darted 
a  silent  glance  at  her  mother.)  "  Konstantin 
Alexandrovitch,  I  imagine,"— I  went  on.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  yes,"— interposed  Sofya  Nikolaevna, 
while  her  little  daughter  did  not  remove  her  at- 
tentive gaze  from  her;  "  my  husband,  of  course 
he  is  very  fond  of  children.  .  .  ." 

A  strange  expression  flashed  over  Lidiya's  in- 

113 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

telligent  little  face.     Her  lips  pouted  slightly; 
she  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"— hastily  added  Sofya  Nikolaevna: 
— *'  you  are  here  on  business,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  And  you  also? " 

"Yes;  I  also.  ...  In  my  husband's  absence, 
you  understand,  I  am  forced  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness." 

"  Maman! " — began  Lidiya. 

"  Quoij  mon  enfant?  " 

^'  Non—rien.  .  .  .  Je  te  dirai  apres." 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  laughed,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

We  both  maintained  silence  for  a  space,  while 
Lidiya  folded  her  arms  pompously  on  her  breast. 

"  Tell  me,  please," — began  Sofya  Nikolaevna 
again:— "I  remember  that  you  had  a  friend 
.  .  .  .  what  in  the  world  was  his  name?  he  had 
such  a  kind  face  ....  he  was  always  reading 
poetry;  a  very  enthusiastic  man.  .  .  ." 

"  Was  n't  it  PasynkofF?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  PasynkofF  ....  where  is  he 
now? " 

"  He  is  dead." 

**  Dead?  "—repeated  Sofya  Nikolaevna:— 
"  what  a  pity!  ..." 

"  Have  I  seen  him?  "—asked  the  little  girl  in 
a  hasty  whisper. 

"  No,  Lidiya,  thou  hast  not  seen  him.  What 
a  pity!  "—repeated  Sofya  Nikolaevna. 

114 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"You  mourn  for  him  .  .  .  ."  I  began:— 
"  What  would  you  do  if  you  had  known  him  as 
I  knew  him?  .  .  .  But  permit  me  to  inquire: 
why  did  you  mention  him  in  particular? " 

"  By  accident ;  I  really  don't  know  why.  .  .  ." 
(Sofya  Nikolae^^la  dropped  her  eyes.)— "Li- 
diya,"— she  added:—"  go  to  thy  nurse." 

"Wilt  thou  call  me  when  I  may  come?"— 
asked  the  little  girl. 

"  I  will." 

The  little  girl  left  the  room.  Sofya  Niko- 
laevna  turned  to  me. 

"  Tell  me,  please,  everything  you  know  about 
PasynkofF." 

I  began  my  narration.  I  sketched,  in  brief 
words,  the  whole  life  of  my  friend;  I  tried,  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,  to  depict  his  soul;  I  de- 
scribed his  last  meeting  with  me,  his  end. 

"  And  so  that  was  the  sort  of  man  he  was!  "— 
I  exclaimed,  as  I  concluded  my  narration:-"  he 
is  gone  from  us,  unnoticed,  almost  unappreci- 
ated !  And  that  would  be  no  great  harm.  What 
does  popular  appreciation  amount  to?  But  I 
feel  pained,  affronted,  that  such  a  man,  with 
so  loving  and  devoted  a  heart  should  have  died, 
without  having  even  once  experienced  the  bliss 
of  mutual  love,  without  having  awakened  sym- 
pathy in  a  single  woman's  heart  worthy  of  him! 
.  .  .  What  if  the  rest  of  us  do  not  taste  that 
bliss?    We  are  not  worthy  of  it;  but  PasynkoiF! 

115 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

.  .  .  And,  moreover,  have  not  I  in  my  day  en- 
countered a  thousand  men  who  were  not  to  be 
compared  with  him  in  any  way,  and  who  have 
been  beloved?  Are  we  bound  to  assume  that  cer- 
tain defects  in  a  man,— self-confidence,  for  ex- 
ample, or  frivolousness,  are  indispensable  in 
order  that  a  woman  shall  become  attached  to 
him?  Or  is  love  afraid  of  perfection,  of  such 
perfection  as  is  possible  here  on  earth,  as  of  some- 
thing alien  and  terrible  to  it?  " 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  listened  to  me  to  the  end, 
without  taking"  from  me  her  stern  and  piercing 
eyes,  or  unsealing  her  lips;  only  her  brows 
twitched  from  time  to  time. 

"  Why  do  you  assume," — she  said,  after  a 
brief  pause, — "  that  not  a  single  woman  loved 
your  friend?  " 

"  Because  I  know  it,  I  know  it  for  a  fact." 

Sofya  Nikolaevna  was  on  the  point  of  saying 
something,  but  stopped  short.  She  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  herself. 

"  You  are  mistaken," — she  said  at  last: — "  I 
know  a  woman  who  loved  your  dead  friend  fer- 
vently: she  loves  and  remembers  him  to  this  day 
....  and  the  news  of  his  death  will  wound  her 
deeply." 

"  Who  is  the  woman?— permit  me  to  ask." 

"  My  sister  Varya." 

"  Varvara  Nikolaevna!" — I  exclaimed  in 
amazement. 

116 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Yes." 


"What?  Varvara  Nikolaevna? "— I  re- 
peated:— "that  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  complete  your  thought," — pursued 
Sofya  Nikolaevna :  —  "  that  cold,  indifferent,  in 
your  opinion,  languid  girl,  loved  your  friend; 
that  is  the  reason  she  has  not  married,  and  will 
not  marry.  Until  to-day,  I  have  been  the  only 
one  to  know  this.  Varya  would  have  died,  rather 
than  betray  her  secret.  In  our  family,  we  know 
how  to  hold  our  peace  and  endure." 

For  a  long  time  I  gazed  intently  at  Sofya  Ni- 
kolaevna, involuntarity  meditating  on  the  bitter 
significance  of  her  last  words. 

"  You  have  astounded  me," — I  said  at  last. — 
"  But  do  )"ou  know,  Sofya  Nikolaevna,  if  I  were 
not  afraid  of  awakening  in  you  unpleasant 
memories,  I  also,  in  my  turn,  could  astound 
you.  ..." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"— she  returned 
slowly,  and  in  some  confusion. 

"  You  really  do  not  understand  me," — said  I, 
rising  hastily: — "and  therefore,  permit  me,  in- 
stead of  a  verbal  explanation,  to  send  you  a  cer- 
tain article.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  is  it?  " — she  asked. 

"Be  not  disturbed,  Sofya  Nikolaevna;  the 
question  does  not  concern  me." 

I  bowed  and  returned  to  my  room,  got  out  the 

amulet  which  I  had  taken  from  Pasynkoff ,  and 

117 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

sent  it  to  Sofya  Nikolaevna,  with  the  following 
note: 

"  This  amulet,  my  dead  friend  wore  con- 
stantly on  his  breast,  and  died  with  it  there.  In 
it  you  will  find  a  note  of  yours  to  him,  of  utterly 
insignificant  contents;  you  may  read  it.  He 
wore  it  because  he  loved  you  passionately,  as  he 
confessed  to  me  only  the  night  before  he  died. 
Now  that  he  is  dead,  why  should  not  you  know 
that  his  heart  belonged  to  you?  " 

Elisyei  soon  returned,  and  brought  me  back 
the  amulet. 

"  How  is  this?  "—I  asked:—"  Did  she  send  no 
message  to  me? " 

"  No,  sir." 

I  said  nothing  foi  a  while. 

"  Did  she  read  my  note?  " 

"  She  must  have  read  it,  sir;  her  little  girl  car- 
ried it  to  her." 

"  Unapproachable,"  —  I  thought,  recaUing 
PasynkofF's  last  words.— "  Well,  go,"— I  said 
aloud. 

Elisyei  smiled  in  a  strange  sort  of  way,  and 
did  not  leave  the  room. 

"  A  certain  young  girl  ....  has  come  to  see 
you,  sir,"— he  began. 

"What  girl?" 

Elisyei  was  silent  for  a  space. 

"  Did  n't  my  late  master  tell  you  anything, 
sirf 

118 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  No.  .  .  .  What  dost  thou  mean? " 

"  When  he  was  in  Novgorod,"— went  on  Eli- 
syei,  touching  the  jamb  of  the  door  with  his 
hand,  .  ..."  he  made  acquaintance  with  a 
certain  young  girl,  say,  for  example.  So  it  is 
that  girl  who  wishes  to  see  you,  sir.  I  met  her  on 
the  street  the  other  day.  I  said  to  her:  '  Come; 
if  the  master  commands,  I  will  admit  thee.'  " 

"  Ask  her  in,  ask  her  in,  of  course.  But  .... 
what  sort  of  a  girl  is  she  ?  " 

"  A  lowly  girl,  sir  ...  .  from  the  petty 
burgher  class  ....  a  Russian." 

"  Did  the  late  YakofF  Ivanitch  love  her? " 

"  He  loved  her  right  enough,  sir.  Well,  she 
.  .  .  .  when  she  heard  that  my  master  was 
dead,  she  was  greatly  afflicted.  She  's  a  good 
girl,  right  enough,  sir." 

"  Ask  her  in,  ask  her  in." 

EHsyei  went  out,  and  immediately  returned. 
Behind  him  came  a  girl  in  a  gaily-coloured  cotton 
gown,  and  with  a  dark  kercliief  on  her  head, 
which  half  covered  her  face.  On  catching  sight 
of  me,  she  was  abashed,  and  turned  away. 

"What  ails  thee?  "— Elisyei  said  to  her:— 
"  Go  along,  have  no  fear." 

I  stepped  up  to  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  What  is  your  name?  " — I  asked  her. 

"  Masha," — she  said,  in  a  soft  voice,  casting  a 
covert  glance  at  me. 

Judging  from  her  appearanc,e,  she  was  twenty- 

119 


yAkoff  pasynkoff 

two  or  three  years  of  age ;  she  had  a  round,  rather 
plain  but  agreeable  face,  soft  cheeks,  gentle 
blue  eyes,  and  small,  very  pretty,  clean  hands. 
She  was  neatly  dressed. 

"  Did  you  know  YakofF  Ivanitch? " — I  went 
on. 

"  Yes,  sir," — she  said,  plucking  at  the  ends  of 
her  kerchief,  and  tears  started  out  on  her  eye- 
lashes. 

I  asked  her  to  be  seated. 

She  immediately  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair,  without  ceremony,  and  without  putting  on 
airs.    Elisyei  left  the  room. 

"  You  made  his  acquaintance  in  Novgorod  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  Novgorod,  sir," — she  replied,  tuck- 
ing both  hands  under  her  kerchief.  "  I  only  heard 
of  his  death  day  before  yesterday,  from  Elisyei 
Timofeitch,  sir.  Yakoff  Ivanitch,  when  he  went 
away  to  Siberia,  promised  to  write,  and  he  did 
write  twice;  but  after  that  he  did  not  write  any 
more,  sir.  I  would  have  followed  him  to  Siberia, 
but  he  did  not  want  me  to,  sir." 

"  Have  you  relatives  in  Novgorod?  " 

"  I  have." 

"  Did  you  live  with  them?  " 

"  I  lived  with  my  mother  and  my  married  sis- 
ter; but  afterward  my  mother  got  angry  with 
me;  and  it  got  crowded  at  my  sister's:  they  had 
a  lot  of  children;  so  I  moved  away.  I  always 
set  my  hopes  on  YakoiF  Ivanitch,  and  wanted 

120 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

nothing  except  to  see  him,  for  he  was  always 
aiFectionate  to  me— ask  Ehsyei  Timofeitch  if  he 
was  n't." 

Masha  ceased  speaking  for  a  httle  while. 

"  I  have  his  letters  with  me," — she  went  on. — 
"  Here,  look  at  them,  sir." 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  several  letters  and 
gave  them  to  me:—"  Read  them,  sir,"— she  added. 

I  unfolded  one  letter,  and  recognised  Pasyn- 
koff 's  handwriting. 

"Dear  Masha!"  (He  wrote  a  large,  fine 
hand)  — "  yesterday  thou  didst  lean  thy  dear  lit- 
tle head  against  my  head,  and  when  I  asked: 
*  why  art  thou  doing  this  ? '  thou  didst  say  to  me : 
'  I  want  to  hsten  to  what  you  are  thinking  about.' 
I  will  tell  thee  what  I  was  thinking  about :  I  was 
thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  for  Masha  to  learn 
to  read  and  write!  Then  she  could  have  deci- 
phered this  letter.  .  .  ." 

Masha  glanced  at  the  letter. 

"  He  wrote  me  that  while  he  was  still  in  Nov- 
gorod,"—she  said:— "when  he  was  planning 
to  teach  me  to  read  and  write.  Look  at  the 
others,  sir.  There  is  one  from  Siberia,  sir.  Here, 
read  this  one,  sir." 

I  read  the  letters.  They  were  all  very  affec- 
tionate, even  tender.  In  one  of  them,  precisely 
in  that  first  letter  from  Siberia,  Pasynkoff  called 
Masha  his  best  friend,  and  promised  to  send  her 
money  to  come  to  Siberia,  and  wound  up  with 

121 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

the  following  words:  "I  kiss  thy  pretty  little 
hands;  the  young  girls  here  have  no  such  hands; 
and  their  heads  are  no  match  for  thine,  neither 
are  their  hearts.  .  .  .  Read  the  little  books  which 
I  gave  thee,  and  remember  me,  and  I  shall  not 
forget  thee.  Thou  alone,  alone  hast  loved  me; 
and  so  I  wish  to  belong  to  thee  only.  .  .  ." 

"  I  see  that  he  was  very  much  attached  to  thee," 
— I  said,  returning  the  letters  to  her. 

"  He  loved  me  very  much,"— returned  Masha, 
carefully  stowing  the  letters  away  in  her  pocket, 
and  tears  coursed  slowly  down  her  cheeks. — 
"  I  always  set  my  hopes  on  him ;  if  the  Lord 
had  prolonged  his  life,  he  would  not  have  aban- 
doned me.  May  God  grant  him  the  kingdom 
of  heaven!  .  .  .  ." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  a  corner  of  her  ker- 
chief. 

"  Where  are  you  Hving  now?  " — I  inquired. 

"  I  am  living  in  Moscow  now;  I  came  with  a 
lady;  but  now  I  am  without  a  place.  I  went  to 
YakofF  Ivanitch's  aunt,  but  she  is  very  poor  her- 
self. Yakoff  Ivanitch  often  talked  to  me  about 
you,  sir," — she  added,  rising  and  bowing: — 
"  he  was  always  very  fond  of  you,  and  remem- 
bered you.  I  met  Elisyei  Timofeitch  here  the 
day  before  yesterday,  and  I  thought:  would  n't 
you  be  wiUing  to  help  me,  as  I  have  no  place  at 
present.  .  .  ." 

122 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

"  With  great  pleasure,  Mary  a  ....  allow 
me  to  inquire  your  patronymic?  " 

"  PetrofP,"— replied  Masha,  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"  I  will  do  everything  in  my  power  for  you, 
Marya  Petrovna,"— I  went  on: — "I  am  only 
sorry  that  I  am  only  passing  through  the  town, 
and  am  very  little  acquainted  in  nice  houses." 

Masha  sighed. 

"  I  'd  hke  to  get  some  sort  of  a  place,  sir.  ...  I 
don't  know  how  to  cut  out,  but  when  it  comes  to 
sewing,  I  can  sew  anything  ....  well,  and  I 
can  take  care  of  children." 

"I  must  give  her  some  money,"  I  thought: 
"  but  how  am  I  to  do  it?  " 

"  Hearken,  Marya  Petrovna,"— I  began,  not 
without  confusion: — "you  must  excuse  me, 
please,  but  you  know  from  Pasynkoff 's  words 
on  what  friendly  terms  I  was  with  him.  .  .  .  Will 
you  not  permit  me  to  offer  to  you  ....  for 
present  necessities  ....  a  small  sum?  .  .  .'* 

Masha  darted  a  look  at  me. 

"  What,  sir?  "—she  asked. 

"  Are  you  not  in  need  of  money?  "—I  said. 

Masha  blushed  all  over  and  bent  her  head. 

"  What  should  I  do  with  money?  " — she  whis- 
pered.   "  Better  get  me  a  place,  sir.  .  .  ." 

"  I  will  try  to  get  you  a  place;  but  I  cannot 
answer  for  that  with  certainty;  and  really,  it  is 

128 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

wrong  for  you  to  feel  ashamed.  .  .  .  For  I  am 
not  a  mere  stranger  to  you.  .  .  Accept  this  from 
me,  in  memory  of  your  friend.  .  .  ." 

I  turned  away,  hastily  took  several  bank-notes 
from  my  pocket-book,  and  gave  them  to  her. 

Masha  stood  motionless,  her  head  drooping 
still  lower.  .  .  . 

"  Take  it,"— I  repeated. 

She  softly  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  looked  into 
my  face  with  a  mournful  gaze,  softly  liberated 
her  pale  hand  from  under  her  kerchief,  and 
stretched  it  out  to  me.  I  laid  the  bank-notes 
on  her  cold  fingers.  She  silently  hid  her  hand 
again  under  her  kerchief,  and  dropped  her 
eyes. 

"  And  in  future,  Marya  Petrovna," — I  went 
on, — "  if  you  are  in  want  of  anything,  please 
appeal  directly  to  me. — I  will  give  you  my  ad- 
dress." 

"I  thank  you  humbly,  sir,"— she  said;  and 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  added:  "  Did  n't  he  speak 
to  you  about  me,  sir?  " 

"  I  met  him  the  day  before  he  died,  Marya 
Petrovna.  However,  I  do  not  recollect.  ...  I 
think  he  did  speak  of  you." 

Masha  passed  her  hand  over  her  hair,  propped 
her  cheek  lightly  on  it,  meditated,  and  after  say- 
ing: "  Farewell,  sir,"  she  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  began  to  think 
bitter  thoughts.     This  Masha,  her  relations  to 

124 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

Pasynkoff,  his  letters,  the  secret  love  of  Sofya 
Nikolaevna's  sister  for  him.  ..."  Poor  fellow! 
Poor  fellow!" — I  whispered,  sighing  heavily. 
I  recalled  the  whole  of  Pasynkoff's  life,  his 
childhood,  his  youth,  Fraulein  Frederika.  .  .  . 
"  There  now,"— I  thought:  "  Fate  did  not  give 
thee  much !  she  did  not  gladden  thee  with  a  great 
deal!" 

On  the  following  day,  I  called  again  on  Sofya 
Nikolaevna.  I  was  made  to  wait  in  the  ante- 
room, and  when  I  entered,  Lidiya  was  already 
sitting  beside  her  mother.  I  understood  that 
Sofya  Nikolaevna  did  not  wish  to  renew  the  con- 
versation of  the  preceding  day. 

We  began  to  chat — really,  I  do  not  remember 
about  what, — rumours  of  the  town,  business 
matters.  .  .  .  Lidiya  frequently  put  in  her  little 
word,  and  gazed  slily  at  me.  An  amusing  im- 
portance had  suddenly  made  its  appearance  on 
her  mobile  little  face.  .  .  .  The  clever  little  girl 
must  have  divined  that  her  mother  had  placed  her 
by  her  side  of  deliberate  purpose. 

I  rose,  and  began  to  take  my  leave.  Sofya 
Nikolaevna  escorted  me  to  the  door.  "  I  made 
you  no  reply  yesterday,"— she  said,  halting  at 
the  threshold: — "and  what  reply  was  there  to 
make?  Our  life  does  not  depend  on  ourselves; 
but  we  all  have  one  anchor,  from  which  we  need 
never  break  away,  unless  we  so  wish  it  ourselves: 
the  sense  of  duty." 

125 


\ 


YAKOFF  PASYNKOFF 

I  silently  bent  my  head  in  token  of  assent,  and 
bade  farewell  to  the  young  Puritan. 

All  that  evening  I  remained  at  home;  but  I 
did  not  think  of  her;  I  kept  thinking,  thinking 
incessantly  of  my  dear,  my  never-to-be-forgotten 
Pasynkoff — of  that  last  of  the  romanticists ;  and 
feelings  now  sad,  now  tender,  surged  up  sweetly 
in  my  breast,  and  resounded  on  the  strings  of  my 
heart,  which  was  not  yet  grown  utterly  old.  .  .  . 
Peace  to  thy  ashes,  thou  unpractical  man,  thou 
kind-hearted  idealist!  And  may  God  grant  to 
all  practical  gentlemen,  to  whom  thou  were  ever 
an  alien,  and  who,  perchance,  will  still  ridicule 
thy  shadow,— may  God  grant  them  to  taste  at 
least  the  hundredth  part  of  those  pure  delights, 
wherewith,  in  spite  of  Fate  and  men,  thy  poor 
and  submissive  life  was  adorned ! 


126 


it 


FAUST" 

(1855) 


"FAUST" 

A  STORY  IN  NINE  LETTERS 

Entbehren  sollst  du,  sollst  entbehren. 

"Faust."     (Parti.) 

FIRST  LETTER 

From  Pavel  Aleocdndrovitch  B***  to  Semyon 
Nikoldevitch  f***. 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  6,  1850. 

I  ARRIVED  here  three  days  ago,  my  dear 
friend,  and,  in  accordance  with  my  promise, 
I  take  up  my  pen  to  write  to  thee.  A  fine  rain 
has  been  drizzHng  down  ever  since  morning;  it 
is  impossible  to  go  out;  and  besides,  I  want  to 
have  a  chat  with  thee.  Here  I  am  again,  in  my 
old  nest,  in  which  I  have  not  been — dreadful  to 
say — for  nine  whole  years.  Really,  when  one 
comes  to  think  of  it,  I  have  become  altogether 
another  man.  Yes,  actually,  another  man.  Dost 
thou  remember  in  the  drawing-room  the  small, 
dark  mirror  of  my  great-grandmother,  with 
those  queer  scrolls  at  the  corners?  Thou  wert 
always  meditating  on  what  it  had  beheld  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.     As  soon  as  I  arrived,  I  went 

129 


"  FAUST  " 

to  it,  and  was  involuntarily  disconcerted.  I  sud- 
denly perceived  how  I  had  aged  and  changed 
of  late.  However,  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  has 
grown  old.  My  tiny  house,  which  was  in  a  state 
of  decrepitude  long  since,  hardly  holds  itself  up- 
right now,  and  has  sagged  down,  and  sunk  into 
the  ground.  My  good  Vasilievna,  the  house- 
keeper (thou  hast  not  forgotten  her,  I  am  sure: 
she  used  to  regale  thee  with  such  splendid  pre- 
serves), has  quite  dried  up  and  bent  together. 
At  sight  of  me,  she  could  not  cry  out,  and  she 
did  not  fall  to  weeping,  but  merely  grunted  and 
coughed,  sat  down  exhausted  on  a  chair,  and 
waved  her  hand  in  despair.  Old  Terenty  is  still 
alert,  holds  himself  erect  as  of  old,  and  as  he 
walks  turns  out  his  feet  clad  in  the  same  yellow 
nankeen  trousers,  and  shod  with  the  same  squeak- 
ing goat's-leather  shoes,  with  high  instep  and 
knots  of  ribbon,  which  evoked  your  emotions 
more  than  once.  .  .  .  But  great  heavens! — how 
loose  those  trousers  now  hang  on  his  thin  legs! 
how  white  his  hair  has  grown !  And  his  face  has 
all  shrivelled  up  to  the  size  of  your  fist ;  and  when 
he  talked  with  me,  when  he  began  to  make  ar- 
rangements and  issue  orders  in  the  adjoining 
room,  I  found  him  ridiculous,  and  yet  I  was 
sorry  for  him.  All  his  teeth  are  gone,  and  he 
mumbles  with  a  whistling  and  hissing  sound. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  park  has  grown  won- 
derfully beautiful:  the  little  modest  bushes  of 

130 


"  FAUST  " 

lilac,  acacia,  and  honeysuckle  (you  and  I  set  them 
out,  dost  remember?)  have  grown  up  into  mag- 
nificent, dense  thickets;  the  birches  and  maples, 
have  all  spread  upward  and  outward;  the  lin- 
den allej^s  in  particular,  have  become  very  fine. 
I  love  those  alleys,  I  love  their  tender  grey- 
green  hue,  and  the  delicate  fragrance  of  the  air 
beneath  their  arches;  I  love  the  mottled  network 
of  circles  of  light  on  the  dark  earth — I  have  no 
sand,  as  thou  knowest.  My  favourite  oak-sap- 
ling has  already  become  a  young  oak-tree.  Yes- 
terday, in  the  middle  of  the  day,  I  sat  for  more 
than  an  hour  in  its  shade,  on  a  bench.  I  felt 
greatly  at  my  ease.  Round  about  the  grass 
gleamed  so  merrily  green;  over  all  lay  a  golden 
light,  strong  and  soft;  it  even  penetrated  into 
the  shade  ....  and  how  many  birds  I  heard! 
Thou  hast  not  forgotten,  I  trust,  that  birds  are 
my  passion!  The  turtle-doves  cooed  incessantly, 
now  and  then  an  oriole  whistled,  a  chaffinch  exe- 
cuted its  charming  song,  thrushes  waxed  angry 
and  chattered,  a  cuckoo  answered  from  afar; 
suddenly,  like  a  madman,  a  woodpecker  uttered 
a  piercing  scream.  I  listened,  listened  to  all  this 
soft,  commingled  din,  and  did  not  want  to  move, 
and  in  my  heart  was  something  which  was  not 
indolence,  nor  yet  emotion. 

And  the  park  is  not  the  only  thing  that  has 
grown  up;  sturdy,  robust  lads,  in  whom  I  should 
never  have  recognised  the  little  urchins  whom  I 

131 


"  FAUST  " 

used  to  know,  are  constantly  coming  under  my 
eye.  And  thy  favourite,  Timosha,  has  now  be- 
come such  a  Timofyei  as  thou  canst  not  picture 
to  thyself.  Thou  hadst  fears  for  his  health  then, 
and  predicted  consumption  for  him;  but  thou 
shouldst  take  a  look  now  at  his  huge,  red  hands, 
and  the  way  they  stick  out  from  the  tight  sleeves 
of  his  nankeen  coat,  and  what  round,  thick  mus- 
cles stand  out  all  over  him !  The  nape  of  his  neck 
is  like  that  of  a  bull,  and  his  head  is  all  covered 
with  round,  blond  curls,— a  regular  Farnese 
Hercules!  His  face  has  undergone  less  change, 
however,  than  the  faces  of  the  others  have;  it 
has  not  even  increased  greatly  in  size,  and  his 
cheery,  "  gaping  "  smile,  as  thou  wert  wont  to 
express  it,  has  remained  the  same  as  of  yore.  I 
have  taken  him  for  my  valet;  I  discarded  my 
Petersburg  valet  in  Moscow:  he  was  altogether 
too  fond  of  putting  me  to  shame,  and  making  me 
feel  his  superiority  in  the  usages  of  the  capital. 

I  have  not  found  a  single  one  of  my  dogs ;  they 
are  all  dead.  Nefta  alone  outlived  the  rest — and 
even  she  did  not  survive  till  my  arrival,  as  Argos 
waited  for  Ulysses;  she  was  not  fated  to  behold 
her  former  master  and  comrade  of  the  hunt  with 
her  dimmed  eyes.  But  Shavka  is  still  sound, 
and  still  barks  hoarsely,  and  one  ear  is  torn,  as 
usual,  and  there  are  burrs  in  his  tail,  as  is  jfitting. 

I  have  established  myself  in  thy  former  cham- 
ber.    The  sun  strikes  on  it,  it  is  true,  and  there 

132 


"  FAUST  " 

are  a  great  many  flies  in  it;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  has  less  of  the  odour  of  an  old  house  about 
it  than  the  other  rooms.  'T  is  strange!  that 
musty,  somewhat  sour  and  withered  odour  acts 
powerfully  on  my  imagination.  I  will  not  say 
that  it  is  disagreeable  to  me — on  the  contrary; 
but  it  evokes  in  me  sadness,  and,  eventually, 
dejection.  Like  thyself,  I  am  very  fond  of  the 
pot-bellied  chests  of  drawers  with  their  brass 
fastenings,  the  white  arm-chairs  with  oval  backs 
and  curved  legs,  the  glass  chandeliers  covered 
with  fly-specks,  with  the  huge  egg  of  purple 
tinsel  in  the  middle, — in  a  word,  all  sorts  of  fur- 
niture belonging  to  our  grandfathers;  but  I  can- 
not look  at  all  this  constantly :  a  sort  of  perturbed 
tedium  (precisely  that!)  takes  possession  of  me. 
In  the  room  where  I  have  settled  myself,  the  fur- 
niture is  of  the  most  ordinary  description,  home- 
made; but  I  have  left  in  one  corner  a  tall,  narrow 
cupboard  with  shelves,  on  which,  athwart  the 
dust  are  barely  visible  divers  old-fashioned,  pot- 
bellied vessels,  of  blue  and  green  glass.  And  I 
have  given  orders  that  there  shall  be  hung  on  the 
wall, — thou  wilt  recall  it,  —  that  portrait  of  a 
woman,  in  the  black  frame,  which  thou  wert  wont 
to  call  the  portrait  of  Manon  Lescaut.  It  has 
grown  a  little  darker  in  these  nine  years ;  but  the 
eyes  look  forth  as  pensively,  slily,  and  tenderly 
as  ever,  and  the  lips  smile  in  the  same  frivolous 
and   mournful   way   as   of  old,   and   the   half- 

133 


"  FAUST  " 

stripped  rose  dangles  as  softly  as  ever  from 
the  slender  fingers.  The  window-shades  in  my 
room  amuse  me  greatly.  Once  upon  a  time  they 
used  to  be  green,  but  have  grown  yellow  in  the 
sunlight.  Upon  them,  in  black,  are  painted 
scenes  from  d'Arlincourt's  "Hermit."  On  one 
shade,  this  hermit,  with  the  biggest  sort  of  a 
beard,  staringly-prominent  eyes,  and  in  sandals, 
is  dragging  off  to  the  mountains  some  dis- 
hevelled young  lady  or  other ;  on  the  other  shade, 
a  fierce  combat  is  in  progress  between  four 
knights  in  skull-caps,  and  with  puffs  on  their 
shoulders;  one  is  lying,  en  raccourci,  slain— in 
short,  all  the  horrors  are  depicted,  and  all  around 
reigns  such  undisturbed  tranquillity,  and  such 
gentle  reflections  are  cast  on  the  ceiling  from 
the  shades  themselves.  ...  A  sort  of  spiritual 
quietude  has  descended  upon  me  since  I  have 
established  myself  here.  I  do  not  want  to  do 
anything ;  I  do  not  want  to  see  any  one,  to  medi- 
tate about  anything.  I  am  too  indolent  to  specu- 
late; but  not  too  indolent  to  think;  but  thinking 
is  not  indolence;  they  are  two  separate  things, 
as  thou  art  well  aware. 

At  first  the  memories  of  my  childhood  in- 
vaded me.  .  .  .  Wheresoever  I  went,  whatso- 
ever I  looked  at,  they  surged  up  from  every  di- 
rection, clear,  clear  to  the  most  minute  details, 
and  motionless,  as  it  were,  in  their  distinct  defi- 

niteness Then  those  memories  were  suc- 

13  i 


"  FAUST  " 

ceeded  by  others ;  then  .  .  .  then  I  softly  turned 
away  from  the  past,  and  there  remained  nothing 
in  my  breast  save  a  sort  of  dreamy  burden.  Just 
imagine !  As  I  sat  on  the  dam,  under  the  willow, 
I  suddenly  fell  to  weeping,  quite  unexpectedly; 
and  would  have  wept  for  a  long  time,  in  spite 
of  my  advanced  age,  had  I  not  been  mortified 
by  a  passing  peasant-wife,  who  stared  at  me 
with  curiosity,  then,  without  turning  her  head 
toward  me,  made  a  straight,  low  obeisance,  and 
walked  past.  I  should  have  liked  greatly  to  re- 
main in  that  frame  of  mind  ( I  shall  not  weep  any 
more,  of  course)  until  my  departure  hence,  that 
is  to  say,  until  the  month  of  September;  and  I 
shall  be  very  much  chagrined,  if  any  one  of  the 
neighbours  should  take  it  into  his  head  to  call  on 
me.  However,  apparently,  there  is  nothing  to 
fear  in  that  quarter;  for  I  have  no  near  neigh- 
bours. Thou  wilt  understand  me,  I  am  convinced ; 
thou  knowest,  from  thine  own  experience,  how 
beneficial  solitude  often  is.  ...  I  need  it  now, 
after  all  sorts  of  wanderings. 

But  I  shall  not  be  bored.  I  have  brought  with 
me  several  books,  and  I  have  a  very  fair  library 
here.  Yesterday  I  opened  the  cases,  and  rum- 
maged for  a  long  time  among  the  musty  books. 
I  found  many  curious  things,  which  I  had  not 
noticed  before:  "  Candide,"  in  a  manuscript 
translation  of  the  '70s;  newspapers  and  journals 
of  the  same  period;  "The  Triumphant  Chame- 

135 


"  FAUST  " 

leon  "  (that  is  to  say,  Mirabeau)  ;  "  Le  Paysan 
Perverti,"  and  so  forth.  I  came  upon  some  chil- 
dren's books,  my  own,  and  those  of  my  father, 
and  m}^  grandmother,  and,  even — just  fancy! — 
of  my  great-grandmother.  On  one  very,  very 
ancient  French  grammar,  in  a  gay  binding,  was 
written  in  large  letters :  "  Ce  livre  appartient  a 
M-lle  Eudoxie  de  Lavrine/'  and  the  year  was 
added — 1741.  I  saw  books  which  I  had  brought 
from  abroad  some  time  or  other;  among  others, 
Goethe's  "  Faust."  Perhaps  thou  art  not  aware 
that  there  was  a  time  when  I  knew  "  Faust  "  by 
heart  (the  first  part,  of  course),  word  for  word; 
I  could  not  read  it  enough  to  satisfy  myself.  .  .  . 
But,  other  times,  other  dreams,  and  in  the  course 
of  the  last  nine  years  I  don't  believe  I  have  taken 
Goethe  in  my  hand  a  single  time.  With  what 
an  inexpressible  feeling  did  I  behold  the  little 
book,  but  too  familiar  to  me  (a  bad  edition  of 
1828).  I  carried  it  oiF  with  me,  lay  down  on 
my  bed,  and  began  to  read.  What  an  effect  the 
whole  magnificent  first  scene  had  upon  me!  The 
appearance  of  the  Spirit  of  Earth,  his  wordsj 
thou  rememberest:  "  On  the  billows  of  life,  in 
the  whirlwind  of  action,"  aroused  within  me  the 
trepidation  and  chill  of  rapture  which  I  have  not 
experienced  for  many  a  day.  I  recalled  every- 
thing: Berlin,  and  my  student  days,  and  Frau- 
lein  Klara  Schtik,  and  Zeidelmann,  in  the  part 
of  Mephistopheles,   and   everything   and  every 

136 


"  FAUST  " 

one.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  I  could  not  get  to 
sleep;  my  youth  came  and  stood  before  me,  like 
a  ghost;  like  a  fire,  like  a  poison,  it  coursed 
through  my  veins;  my  heart  expanded  and  re- 
fused to  contract;  something  swept  across  its 
strings,  and  desires  began  to  seethe 

Such  were  the  reveries  to  which  thy  friend, 
aged  almost  forty,  surrendered  himself  as  he  sat 
solitary,  in  his  isolated  little  house !  What  if  some 
one  had  seen  me?  Well,  what  if  they  had?  I  should 
not  have  been  in  the  least  ashamed.  To  feel 
ashamed  is  also  a  sign  of  youth ;  but  I  have  begun 
to  notice  that  I  am  growing  old,  and  knowest  thou 
why  ?  This  is  the  reason.  I  now  try  to  magnify 
to  myself  my  cheerful  sensations,  and  to  belittle 
the  mournful  ones,  while  in  the  days  of  youth 
I  proceeded  on  the  diametrically  opposite  plan. 
One  goes  about  then  hoarding  his  sorrow  as 
though  it  were  a  treasure,  and  is  ashamed  of  a 
cheerful  impulse.  .  .  . 

And  nevertheless,  it  seems  to  me  that,  notwith- 
standing all  my  experience  of  life,  there  is  still 
something  more  in  the  world,  friend  Horatio, 
that  I  have  not  experienced,  and  that  that  "some- 
thing "  is  about  the  most  important  of  all. 

Ekh,  how  I  have  run  on!  Farewell!  until  an- 
other time.  What  art  thou  doing  in  Petersburg? 
By  the  way:  Savely,  my  rustic  cook,  asks  to  be 
remembered  to  thee.  He  also  has  grown  old, 
but  not  too  much  so,  has  waxed  fat  and  some- 

137 


"  FAUST  " 

what  pot-bellied.  He  makes  just  as  well  as  of 
old,  chicken  soup  with  boiled  onions,  curd-cakes 
with  fancy  edges,  and  pigus/  the  famous  dish  of 
the  steppes,  which  made  thy  tongue  turn  white, 
gave  thee  indigestion,  and  stood  like  a  stake 
through  thee  for  four-and-twenty  hours.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  dries  up  the  roasts,  as  of  old,  to 
such  a  point,  that  you  might  bang  them  against 
the  plate — they  are  regular  cardboard.  But  fare- 
well! 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

SECOND  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  12,  1850. 

I  HAVE  a  rather  important  bit  of  news  to  com- 
municate to  thee,  my  dear  friend. — Listen!  Yes- 
terday, before  dinner,  I  took  a  fancy  for  a  stroll, 
— only  not  in  the  park;  I  walked  along  the  road 
leading  to  town.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  walk  on 
a  long,  straight  road,  without  any  object,  and 
with  long  strides.  One  seems  to  be  engaged  in 
business,  hastening  somewhere  or  other. — I  look: 
a  calash  is  driving  to  meet  me.  "  Is  n't  it  coming 
to  my  house?  "  I  thought  with  secret  alarm.  .  .  . 
But,  no;  in  the  calash  sits  a  gentleman  with  a 
moustache,   a   stranger   to   me.      I    recover   my 

^  A  sour  soup,  with  cucumbers.  —Translator. 

138 


"  FAUST  " 

equanimity.  But  suddenly  this  gentleman,  on 
coming  alongside  of  me,  orders  his  coachman  to 
stop  the  horses,  courteously  lifts  his  cap,  and 
with  still  geater  courtesy  asks  me:  "Am  not  I 
so-and-so?"  calling  me  by  name.  I,  in  turn, 
come  to  a  halt,  and  with  the  animation  of  a  crim- 
inal being  conducted  to  his  trial,  reply:  "  I  am 
so-and-so,"  and  stare  the  while,  like  a  sheep,  at 
the  gentleman  with  the  moustache,  thinking  to 
myself:  "  Why,  I  certainly  have  seen  him  some- 
where or  other!  " 

"  You  do  not  recognise  me?  " — he  enunciates, 
alighting  in  the  meantime,  from  the  calash. 
"  I  do  not  in  the  least,  sir." 
"  But  I  recognised  you  instantly." 
One  word  follows  another;  it  turns  out  that 
he  is  Priimkoff, — dost  thou  remember?    Our  old 
comrade  in  the  university.     "  What  important 
bit  of  news  is  this?"  thou  art  thinking  at  this 
moment,  my  dear  Semyon  Nikolaitch. — "  Priim- 
koff, so  far  as  I  recollect,  was  a  rather  frivolous 
fellow,  although  neither  malicious  nor  stupid." 
— All  that  is  so,  my  dear  friend;  but  listen  to  the 
continuation  of  my  tale. 

"  I  was  greatly  delighted,"  says  he,  *'  when 
I  heard  that  you  had  come  to  your  village, 
to  our  neighbourhood.  But  I  was  not  the  only 
one  who  rejoiced." 

"Allow  me  to  inquire,"— I  inquired:— "  who 
else  was  so  amiable.  ..." 

139 


"  FAUST  " 

"  My  wife." 

"Your  wife?" 

"  Yes,  my  wife ;  she  is  an  old  acquaintance  of 
yours." 

"  Permit  me  to  inquire  your  wife's  name?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Vyera  Nikolaevna;  she  was 
born  EltzofP " 

"Vyera  Nikolaevna!  "—I  exclaimed  involun- 
tarily. .  .  . 

So  this  is  that  same  important  piece  of  news, 
of  which  I  spoke  to  thee  at  the  beginning  of  my 
letter. 

But  perhaps  thou  wilt  not  discern  anything 
important  about  it.  ...  I  must  narrate  to  thee 
somewhat  of  my  past  ....  of  my  long-past 
life. 

When  we,  thou  and  I,  came  out  of  the  uni- 
versity, I  was  twenty-two  years  of  age.  Thou 
didst  enter  the  government  service;  I,  as  thou 
art  aware,  decided  to  betake  myself  to  Berlin. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  do  in  Berlin  before  Oc- 
tober. I  wanted  to  spend  the  summer  in  Russia, 
in  the  country,  to  have  my  fill  of  lounging  for  the 
last  time;  and  then  to  set  to  work  in  sober  ear- 
nest. As  to  how  far  this  last  project  was  exe- 
cuted, I  will  not  dilate  at  present.  ..."  But 
where  shall  I  spend  the  summer? "  I  asked  my- 
self. I  did  not  wish  to  go  to  my  own  country- 
place:  my  father  had  recently  died,  I  had  no 
near  relatives,  I  dreaded  solitude,  tedium.  .  .  . 

140 


"  FAUST  " 

And  therefore,  I  joyfully  accepted  the  sugges- 
tion of  one  of  my  relatives,  my  great-uncle,  that 
I  should  visit  him  on  his  estate,  in  the  T***  Gov- 
ernment. He  was  a  wealthy  man,  kind-hearted 
and  simple,  lived  in  fine  style,  and  had  a  manor 
worthy  of  a  nobleman.  I  established  myself  in 
his  house.  My  uncle  had  a  large  family:  two 
sons  and  five  daughters.  In  addition  to  these, 
there  dwelt  in  his  house  a  throng  of  people. 
Guests  were  incessantly  arriving, — and,  never- 
theless, things  were  not  cheerful.  The  days 
flowed  by  noisily;  there  was  no  possibility  of  iso- 
lating one's  self.  Everything  was  done  in  com- 
pany; everybody  tried  to  divert  themselves  in 
some  way,  to  devise  something,  and  by  the  end 
of  the  day  everybody  was  frightfully  tired. 
This  life  had  a  commonplace  savour.  I  had  al- 
ready begun  to  meditate  departure,  and  was  only 
waiting  until  mj'-  uncle's  Name-day  should  ar- 
rive; but  on  that  very  day — the  Name-day — I 
saw  Vyera  Nikolaevna  filtzoff  at  the  ball,— and 
remained. 

She  was  then  sixteen.  She  lived  with  her 
mother  on  a  tiny  estate,  about  five  versts  from 
my  uncle's.  Her  father— a  remarkable  man,  they 
say — had  speedily  attained  to  the  rank  of  col- 
onel, and  would  have  risen  still  higher,  but  per- 
ished while  yet  a  young  man,  accidentally  shot 
in  hunting  by  a  comrade.  Vyera  Nikolaevna 
was  a  child  when  he  died.     Her  mother,  also, 

141 


"  FAUST  " 

was  a  remarkable  woman:  she  spoke  several  lan- 
guages, she  knew  a  great  deal.  She  was  seven 
or  eight  years  older  than  her  husband,  whom 
she  had  married  for  love;  he  had  secretly  car- 
ried her  off  from  her  father's  house.  She  barely 
survived  his  loss,  and  until  her  own  death  (ac- 
cording to  Priimkoff's  statement,  she  died  soon 
after  her  daughter's  marriage)  she  wore  black 
garments  only.  I  vividly  recall  her  face:  ex- 
pressive, dark,  with  thick  hair  sprinkled  with 
grey,  large  stern  eyes  which  seemed  extin- 
guished, and  a  straight,  delicate  nose.  Her  fa- 
ther— his  surname  was  LadanofF — had  lived  for 
fifteen  years  in  Italy.  Vyera  Nikolaevna's  mo- 
ther had  ben  born  the  daughter  of  a  plain  peas- 
ant-woman of  Albano,  who  had  been  killed  on 
the  day  after  the  birth  of  her  child,  by  a  man  of 
Transtevere,  her  betrothed,  from  whom  Lada- 
noff  had  stolen  her.  .  .  .  This  story  had  made 
a  great  noise  in  its  day.  On  his  return  to  Russia, 
LadanofF  not  only  did  not  step  out  of  his  house, 
but  even  out  of  his  study,  busied  himself  with 
chemistry,  anatomy,  the  cabalistic  art;  tried  to 
lengthen  the  life  of  mankind,  and  imagined  that 
he  could  enter  into  relations  with  spirits,  and 
call  up  the  dead.  .  .  .  The  neighbours  looked 
on  him  as  a  wizard.  He  was  extremely  fond  of 
his  daughter,  taught  her  everything  himself;  but 
did  not  forgive  her  for  her  elopement  with  El- 
tzofF,  would  not  admit  her  to  his  presence,  either 

142 


"  FAUST  " 

her  or  her  husband,  foretold  a  sorrowful  life  for 
both  of  them,  and  died  alone.  On  being  left 
a  widow,  Madame  Eltzoff  consecrated  her  lei- 
sure to  the  education  of  her  daughter,  and  re- 
ceived almost  no  one.  When  I  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Vyera  Nikolaevna,— just  imagine 
it  I— she  had  never  been  in  a  large  town  in  her 
life,  not  even  in  her  county  town. 

Vyera  Nikolaevna  did  not  resemble  the  ordi- 
nary young  Russian  gentlewoman;  a  sort  of 
special  stamp  lay  upon  her.  What  instantly  im- 
pressed me  in  her  was  the  wonderful  repose  of 
all  her  movements  and  remarks.  Apparently, 
she  did  not  worry  about  anything,  did  not  get 
excited,  answered  simply  and  sensibly,  and  lis- 
tened attentively.  The  expression  of  her  face 
was  sincere  and  upright,  as  that  of  a  child,  but 
somewhat  cold  and  monotonous,  although  not 
pensive.  She  was  rarely  merry,  and  then  not 
like  other  people :  the  clarity  of  an  innocent  soul, 
more  delightful  than  merriment,  glowed  in  all 
her  being.  She  was  short  of  stature,  very  well 
made,  rather  thin;  she  had  regular  and  tender 
features,  a  very  handsome,  smooth  brow,  golden- 
chestnut  hair,  a  straight  nose,  like  her  mother, 
and  quite  full  Hps ;  her  grey  eyes,  with  a  tinge  of 
black,  looked  out  somewhat  too  directly  from  be- 
neath her  thick,  upward-curling  lashes.  Her 
hands  were  small,  but  not  very  pretty ;  people  who 
possess  talent  do  not  have  such  hands  ....  and, 

143 


"  FAUST  " 

as  a  matter  of  fact,  Vyera  Nikolaevna  had  no 
particular  talents.  Her  voice  was  as  ringing  as 
that  of  a  seven-year-old  girl.  At  my  uncle's  ball 
I  was  introduced  to  her  mother,  and,  a  few  days 
later,  I  drove  to  see  them  for  the  first  time. 

Madame  £ltzofF  was  a  very  strange  woman, 
with  a  great  deal  of  character,  persistent  and 
concentrated.  She  exerted  a  strong  influence  on 
me:  I  both  respected  and  feared  her.  With  her 
everything  was  done  on  a  system;  and  she  had 
reared  her  daughter  on  a  system,  but  did  not  re- 
strain her  of  her  liberty.  Her  daughter  loved 
her  and  believed  in  her  blindly.  It  sufficed  for 
Madame  ^ItzofF  to  give  her  a  book,  and  to  say: 
"  Here,  don't  read  this  page,"— and  she  would, 
probably,  skip  the  preceding  page,  but  would 
not  even  glance  at  the  forbidden  one.  But 
Madame  EltzofF  had  also  her  idees  fixes,  her 
hobbies.  For  example,  she  feared  everything 
which  might  act  on  the  imagination,  as  she  did 
fire;  and  therefore  her  daughter,  up  to  the  age 
of  seventeen,  had  not  read  a  single  poem,  while 
in  geography,  history,  and  even  natural  history, 
she  frequently  nonplussed  me,  a  university  grad- 
uate, and  not  one  who  had  stood  low  in  his  class 
either,  as  thou  wilt,  perhaps,  remember.  I  once 
undertook  to  argue  with  Madame  EltzofF  about 
her  hobby,  although  it  was  difficult  to  draw  her 
into  conversation:  she  was  extremely  taciturn. 
She  merely  shook  her  head. 

144 


"  FAUST  " 

"  You  say," — she  remarked  at  last, — "  that  it 
is  both  useful  and  agreeable  to  read  poetical  pro- 
ductions. ...  I  think  that  one  should,  as  early 
as  possible,  make  a  choice  in  life  either  of  the  use- 
ful or  of  the  agreeable,  and  so  make  up  one's 
mind  once  for  all.  I,  also,  once  upon  a  time, 
tried  to  combine  the  two  things.  ...  It  is  im- 
possible and  leads  to  destruction  or  to  insipidity." 

Yes,  a  wonderful  being  was  that  woman,  an 
honourable,  proud  being,  not  devoid  of  fanati- 
cism and  superstition  of  a  certain  sort.  "  I  fear 
life," — she  said  to  me  one  day. — And,  in  fact, 
she  did  fear  it, — she  feared  those  secret  forces 
upon  which  life  is  erected,  and  which  rarely  but 
suddenly  make  their  way  to  the  surface.  Woe 
to  the  person  over  whose  head  they  break !  These 
forces  had  made  themselves  felt  by  Madame 
EltzofF  in  a  terrible  manner :  remember  the  death 
of  her  mother,  her  husband,  her  father.  ...  It 
was  enough  to  terrify  any  one.  I  never  saw  her 
smile.  She  seemed  to  have  locked  herself  up, 
and  flung  the  key  into  the  water.  She  must  have 
gone  through  a  great  deal  of  sorrow  in  her  day, 
and  she  never  shared  it  with  any  one  whomso- 
ever. She  had  trained  herself  not  to  give  way 
to  her  feelings  to  such  a  degree,  that  she  was 
even  ashamed  to  display  her  passionate  love  for 
her  daughter;  she  never  once  kissed  her  in  my 
presence,  never  called  her  by  a  pet  name,  but 
always  "  Vyera."     I  remember  one  remark  of 

145 


(( 


FAUST 


hers.  I  happened  to  say  to  her  that  all  we  peo- 
ple of  the  present  day  were  half -broken.  .  .  . 
"  There  's  no  use  in  breaking  one's  self  so,"— she 
said: — "  one  must  subdue  one's  self  thoroughly, 
— or  not  touch  one's  self.  .  .  ." 

Very  few  persons  called  at  Madame  El- 
tzofF's;  but  I  visited  her  frequently.  I  was  se- 
cretly conscious  that  she  felt  kindly  toward  me; 
and  I  liked  Vyera  Nikolaevna  very  much.  She 
and  I  chatted  and  strolled  together.  .  .  .  Her 
mother  did  not  interfere  with  us;  the  daughter 
herself  did  not  like  to  be  apart  from  her  mother, 
and  I,  on  my  side,  did  not  feel  any  need  of  soli- 
tary conversations.  .  .  .  Vyera  Nikolaevna  had 
a  strange  habit  of  thinking  aloud;  at  night  she 
talked  loudly  and  intelligibly  in  her  sleep  of  what 
had  impressed  her  during  the  day. — One  day, 
after  scanning  me  attentively,  and,  according 
to  her  wont,  softly  propping  her  chin  on  her 
hand,  she  said:  "  It  strikes  me  that  B***  is  a 
good  man;  but  one  cannot  rely  on  him."  Our 
relations  were  of  the  most  friendly  and  even 
character;  only  one  day  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
noticed  far  away,  somewhere  in  the  depths  of 
her  bright  eyes,  a  strange  something,  a  sort  of 
softness  and  tenderness.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  was 
mistaken. 

In  the  meanwhile,  time  passed  on,  and  the  day 
came  when  I  was  obliged  to  make  preparations 
for  departure.     But  still  I  tarried.    As  I  recall 

146 


"  FAUST  " 

it,  I  persisted  in  thinking  that  I  should  not  soon 
see  again  that  charming  girl,  to  whom  I  had 
grown  so  attached — and  I  should  feel  uncom- 
fortable. .  .  .  Berlin  began  to  lose  its  power  of 
attraction.  I  did  not  dare  to  admit  to  myself 
what  had  taken  place  in  me, — and  I  did  not  un- 
derstand what  it  was  that  had  taken  place  in 
me, — it  was  as  though  a  mist  were  roving  about 
in  my  soul.  At  last,  one  morning,  everything 
suddenly  became  clear  to  me.  "  What  's  the  use 
of  seeking  further?  "—I  thought.  "  Why 
should  I  strive  onward?  For  the  truth  will  not 
surrender  itself  into  my  hands,  all  the  same. 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  remain  here  ?  Ought  not 
I  to  marry?  "  and,  just  imagine,  this  thought  of 
marriage  did  not  alarm  me  in  the  least  then. 
On  the  contrary,  I  was  delighted  at  it.  More 
than  that;  that  very  same  day,  I  avowed  my  in- 
tentions, only  not  to  Vyera,  but  to  Madame  El- 
tzoff  herself.     The  old  lady  looked  at  me. 

"No," — said  she: — "my  dear  fellow,  go  to 
Berlin,  and  break  yourself  a  little  more.  You 
are  good;  but  you  are  not  the  sort  of  husband 
whom  Vyera  needs." 

I  cast  down  my  eyes,  flushed  scarlet,  and — 
what  will  probably  amaze  thee  still  more — I  in- 
wardly agreed  with  JNIadame  filtzoif  on  the  spot. 
A  week  later  I  took  my  departure,  and  have 
never  seen  either  her  or  Vyera  since  that  time. 

I  have  described  to  thee  my  adventure  in  brief, 

147 


"  FAUST  " 

because  I  know  that  thou  dost  not  Hke  anything 
"  long-drawn-out."  On  arriving  in  Berhn,  I 
very  promptly  forgot  Vyera  Nikolaevna.  .  .  . 
But,  I  must  confess,  that  the  unexpected  news 
of  her  has  agitated  me.  I  have  been  impressed 
by  the  thought  that  she  is  so  near,  that  she  is  my 
neighbour,  that  I  shall  see  her  in  a  few  days. 
The  past  has  suddenly  started  up  before  me,  as 
though  it  had  sprung  out  of  the  earth,  and  were 
fairly  swooping  down  on  me.  Priimkoif  in- 
formed me  that  he  had  called  upon  me  with  the 
express  purpose  of  renewing  our  ancient  ac- 
quaintance, and  that  he  hoped  to  see  me  at  his 
house  very  shortly.  He  informed  me  that  he 
had  served  in  the  cavalry,  had  retired  with  the 
rank  of  lieutenant,  purchased  an  estate  eight 
versts  distant  from  mine,  and  was  intending  to 
occupy  himself  with  farming;  that  he  had  had 
three  children,  but  two  of  them  had  died,  and 
only  a  five-year-old  daughter  was  left. 

"And  does  your  wife  remember  me?" — I 
asked. 

"  Yes,  she  does," — he  replied  with  a  slight  hesi- 
tation.— "  Of  course,  she  was  then  a  child,  so  to 
speak ;  but  her  mother  always  praised  you  highly, 
and  you  know  how  she  prizes  every  word  of  the 
deceased." 

Madame  £ltzofF's  words,  that  I  was  not  a 
suitable  husband  for  Vyera,  recurred  to  my  mem- 
ory. .  .  .  "So  thou  wert  suitable,"— I  thought, 

148 


"  FAUST  " 

darting  a  sidelong  glance  at  PriimkofF.  He 
spent  several  hours  at  my  house.  He  is  a  very 
good,  nice  fellow,  he  talks  very  modestly,  has 
a  very  good-natured  gaze ;  one  cannot  help  liking 
him  ....  but  his  intellectual  faculties  have  not 
developed  since  the  period  of  our  acquaintance 
with  him.  I  shall  go  to  see  him  without  fail, 
to-morrow,  perhaps.  I  shall  find  it  extremely 
interesting  to  see  how  Vyera  Nikolaevna  has 
turned  out. 

Thou  art,  probably,  laughing  at  me  now,  thou 
rascal,  as  thou  sittest  at  thy  director's  table;  but 
nevertheless,  I  shall  write  to  thee  what  impres- 
sion she  makes  on  me.  Farewell !  Until  the  next 
letter.  Thine, 

P.  B. 

THIRD  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  16,  1850. 

Well,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  been  at  her  house, 
I  have  seen  her.  First  of  all,  I  must  communicate 
to  thee  a  remarkable  circumstance:  believe  me 
or  not,  as  thou  wilt,  but  she  has  hardly  changed 
at  all,  either  in  face  or  in  figure.  When  she  came 
out  to  greet  me,  I  almost  exclaimed  aloud:  a 
young  girl  of  seventeen,  and  that  's  all  there  is 
to  be  said!    Only,  her  eyes  are  not  like  those  of 

149 


"  FAUST  " 

a  little  girl;  however,  even  in  her  youth  she  did 
not  have  childish  eyes,  they  were  too  bright. 
But  there  is  the  same  composure,  the  same  seren- 
ity, the  same  voice,  not  a  single  wrinkle  on  her 
brow,  just  as  though  she  had  been  lying  some- 
where in  the  snow  all  these  years.  And  now 
she  is  twenty-eight  years  old,  and  has  had  three 
children.  .  .  'T  is  incomprehensible!  Pray,  do 
not  think  that  I  am  exaggerating  out  of  preju- 
dice; on  the  contrary,  this  immutability  in  her 
does  not  please  me. 

A  woman  of  eight-and-twenty,  a  wife  and  a 
mother,  ought  not  to  look  like  a  young  girl;  for 
she  has  not  lived  in  vain.  She  greeted  me  very 
cordially ;  but  my  arrival  simply  enraptured  Pri- 
imkoff;  that  good  fellow  looks  as  though  he 
would  like  to  get  attached  to  some  one.  Their 
house  is  very  comfortable  and  clean.  Vyera  Ni- 
kolaevna  was  dressed  like  a  young  girl,  also;  all 
in  white,  with  a  sky-blue  sash,  and  a  slender  gold 
chain  on  her  neck.  Her  little  daughter  is  very 
charming,  and  does  not  resemble  her  in  the 
least;  she  reminds  one  of  her  grandmother.  In 
the  drawing-room,  over  the  divan,  hangs  a  por- 
trait of  that  strange  woman,  a  striking  likeness. 
It  caught  my  eye  the  moment  I  entered.  She 
seemed  to  be  staring  sternly  and  attentively  at 
me.  We  sat  down,  recalled  old  times,  and  grad- 
ually got  into  conversation.  I  kept  involuntarily 
glancing   at   the   gloomy   portrait   of   Madame 

150 


« 


FAUST  " 


Eltzoff .  Vyera  Nikolaevna  was  sitting  directly 
under  it;  it  is  her  favourite  place.  Fancy  my 
amazement!  To  this  day,  Vyera  Nikolaevna  has 
not  read  a  single  romance,  a  single  poem — in 
short,  as  she  expresses  it,  a  single  work  of  fiction ! 
This  incredible  indifference  to  the  loftiest  joys 
of  the  mind  enraged  me.  In  a  sensible  woman, 
and  one  who,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  possesses  deli- 
cate feelings,  this  is  simply  unpardonable. 

"Why," — I  said: — "have  you  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  read  such  books? " 

"  I  have  never  happened  to  do  it," — she  re- 
plied.— "  I  have  not  had  the  time." 

"Not  had  the  time!  I  am  astonished!  You 
might  at  least  have  inspired  your  wife  with  a  wish 
to  do  so," — I  went  on,  addressing  Priimkoff. 

"  It  would  have  given  me  great  pleasure  .  .  .  ." 
PriimkoiF  began,  but  Vyera  Nikolaevna  inter- 
rupted him. 

"Don't  pretend;  thou  art  no  great  lover  of 
poetry  thyself." 

"  Of  poetrj^"— he  began,—"  I  really  am  not 
very  fond;  but  romances,  for  example.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  do  you  do,  how  do  you  occupy 
yourselves  evenings?" — I  inquired. — "Do  you 
play  cards?  " 

"Sometimes  we  do,"— she  replied: — "but 
is  n't  there  plenty  to  occupy  us  ?  We  read,  also ; 
there  are  good  books  besides  poetry." 

"  Why  do  you  attack  poetry  so? " 

151 


"  FAUST  " 

"  I  don't  attack  it ;  I  have  been  accustomed 
from  my  childhood  not  to  read  works  of  fiction; 
my  mother  thought  that  was  proper,  and  the 
longer  I  live,  the  more  convinced  do  I  become 
that  everything  which  my  mother  did,  everything 
she  said,  was  the  truth,  the  sacred  truth." 

"  Well,  as  you  like ;  but  I  cannot  agree  with 
you.  I  am  convinced  that  you  do  wrong  in  de- 
priving yourself  of  the  purest,  the  most  lawful 
enjoyment.  Surely,  you  do  not  reject  music, 
painting;  then  why  should  you  reject  poetry?  " 

"  I  do  not  reject  it.  Up  to  the  present  time 
I  have  not  made  acquaintance  with  it — that  is 
all." 

"Then  I  shall  take  the  matter  in  hand! 
Surely,  your  mother  did  not  forbid  you  to  ac- 
quaint yourself  with  the  productions  of  elegant 
literature  during  your  entire  life? " 

"  No;  when  I  married,  my  mother  removed  all 
restrictions  from  me;  it  has  never  entered  my 
head  to  read  ....  what  was  it  you  called  it? 
.  .  .  well,  in  short,  to  read  romances." 

I  listened  with  surprise  to  Vyera  Nikolaevna. 
I  had  not  expected  this. 

She  gazed  at  me  with  her  tranquil  look.  That 
is  the  way  birds  gaze,  when  they  are  not  afraid. 

"I  will  bring  you  a  book!" — I  exclaimed. 
(The  thought  of  "  Faust,"  which  I  had  recently 
read,  flashed  through  my  mind. ) 

Vyera  Nikolaevna  heaved  a  soft  sigh. 

152 


"  FAUST  " 

"  It  ....  it  is  not  Georges  Sand?  "—she  in- 
quired, not  without  timidity.  * 

"Ah!  so  you  have  heard  of  her?  Well,  and 
what  if  it  were  she,  where  's  the  harm?  .  .  .  No; 
I  shall  bring  you  another  author.  You  have  not 
forgotten  your  German,  I  suppose?  " 

*'  No,  I  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"  She  speaks  it  like  a  German," — interposed 
PriimkofF. 

"  Well,  that  's  fine !  I  shall  bring  you  .  .  . 
but  there  now,  you  shall  see  what  a  marvellous 
thing  I  shall  bring  you." 

"  Well,  very  good,  I  shall  see.  And  now  let 
us  go  into  the  garden,  for  Natasha  will  not  be 
able  to  sit  quietty  otherwise." 

She  put  on  a  round  straw  hat,  a  child's  hat,  ex- 
actly like  the  one  which  her  daughter  donned, 
only  a  little  larger,  and  we  betook  ourselves  to  the 
garden.  I  walked  by  her  side.  In  the  fresh 
air,  in  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  lindens,  her  face 
seemed  to  me  more  charming  than  ever,  espe- 
cially when  she  turned  slightly  and  threw  back 
her  head  in  order  to  look  up  at  me  from  under 
the  brim  of  her  hat.  Had  it  not  been  for  Pri- 
imkofF, had  it  not  been  for  the  little  girl  who  was 
skipping  on  in  front  of  us,  I  really  might  have 
thought  that  I  was  not  thirty-five  years  of  age, 
but  three-and-twenty ;  that  I  was  only  just  mak- 
ing ready  to  set  out  for  Berlin;  the  more  so,  as 
the  garden  in  which  we  were  greatly  resembled 

153 


(( 


FAUST  " 


the  garden  on  Madame  ^filtzofF's  estate.  I  could 
not  refrain  from  communicating  my  impres- 
sions to  Vyera  Nikolaevna. 

"  Everybody  tells  me  that  I  have  changed  very 
little  in  outward  appearance," — she  replied: 
—  "moreover,  I  have  remained  the  same  in- 
wardly also." 

We  approached  a  small  Chinese  house. 

"  There,  we  did  not  have  such  a  little  house  at 
Osinovko," — she  said: — "  but  you  must  not  mind 
its  being  so  rickety  and  faded;  it  is  very  nice 
and  cool  inside." 

We  entered  the  little  house.     I  glanced  about 


me. 


Do  you  know  what,  Vyera  Nikolaevna," — 
I  said: — "  order  a  table  and  a  few  chairs  to  be 
brought  hither  before  I  come.  It  really  is  ex- 
traordinarily nice  here.  I  will  read  aloud  to  you 
here.  .  .  .  Goethe's  '  Faust '  .  .  .  .  that  is  the 
thing  I  mean  to  read  to  you." 

"  Yes;  there  are  no  flies  here," — she  remarked 
ingenuously; — "  but  when  shall  you  come?  " 

"  Day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Very  well,"— she  said:—"  I  will  give  orders." 

Natasha,  who  had  entered  the  house  in  com- 
pany with  us,  suddenly  uttered  a  scream,  and 
sprang  back,  all  pale. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "—asked  Vyera  Niko- 
laevna. 

"  Akh,  mamma,"— said  the  little  girl,  pointing 

154 


"  FAUST  " 

at   one   corner,—"  look,    what    a    dreadful    spi- 
der! .  .  .  ." 

Vyera  Nikolaevna  glanced  at  the  corner;  a 
huge,  mottled  spider  was  crawling  quietly  along 
the  wall. 

"  What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of  ?  "—she  said:— 
"  it  does  not  bite;  see  here." 

And  before  I  could  stop  her,  she  took  the  hid- 
eous insect  in  her  hand,  let  it  run  about  on  her 
palm,  and  flung  it  aside. 

"Well,  you  are  a  brave  woman!"— I  ex- 
claimed. 

"  Where  is  the  bravery  in  that?  That  is  not 
one  of  the  poisonous  spiders." 

"  Evidently,  as  of  old,  you  are  strong  in  natu- 
ral history.  I  would  n't  have  taken  it  in  my 
hand." 

"  There  's  no  cause  to  be  afraid  of  it,"— re- 
peated Vyera  Nikolaevna. 

Natasha  gazed  silently  at  us  and  smiled. 

"  How  much  like  your  mother  she  is!  " — I  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,"— rephed  Vyera  Nikolaevna,  with  a 
smile  of  satisfaction;—"  that  delights  me  greatly. 
God  grant  that  she  may  resemble  her  not  in  face 
alone ! " 

We  were  summoned  to  dinner,  and  after  din- 
ner I  took  my  departure.  A^.  B.  The  dinner  was 
very  good  and  savoury.— I  make  this  remark  in 
parenthesis,  for  thy  benefit,  thou  sponger!    To- 

155 


"  FAUST  " 

morrow  I  shall  carry  "  Faust "  to  them.  I  'm 
afraid  that  old  Goethe  and  I  shall  suffer  defeat. 
I  will  describe  everything  to  thee  in  detail. 

Come  now,  what  thinkest  thou  about  all  "  these 
events  "?  Probably,  that  she  has  made  a  power- 
ful impression  on  me,  that  I  am  ready  to  fall 
in  love,  and  so  forth?  Nonsense,  my  dear  fel- 
low! It  is  high  time  for  me  to  exercise  modera- 
tion. I  have  played  the  fool  long  enough;  finis! 
One  cannot  begin  life  over  again  at  my  age. 
Moreover,  even  in  former  days,  I  never  liked 
women  of  that  sort.  .  .  .  But  what  women  I  did 
like!  ! 

I  tremble — my  heart  is  sore — 

I  ""m  ashamed  of  my  idols. 

In  any  case,  I  am  very  glad  of  these  neigh- 
bours, I  am  glad  of  the  possibility  of  meeting 
a  sensible,  simple,  limpid  being;  but  what  hap- 
pens further  thou  shalt  know  in  due  time. 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

FOURTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  June  20,  1850. 

The  reading  took  place  yesterday,  my  dear 
friend,  and  as  to  the  precise  manner  of  it,  details 
follow.    First  of  all,  I  make  haste  to  say,  it  was 

156 


"  FAUST  " 

an  unexpected  success  ....  that  is,  "  success  " 
is  not  the  word  for  it.  .  .  .  Come,  Hsten.  I  ar- 
rived for  dinner.  There  were  six  of  us  at  table: 
she,  PriimkofF,  her  httle  daughter,  the  gover- 
ness (an  insignificant  Httle  white  figure),  I,  and 
some  old  German  or  other,  in  a  short,  light-brown 
frock-coat,  neat,  well-shaven,  experienced,  with 
the  most  peaceable  and  honest  of  faces,  a  tooth- 
less smile,  and  an  odour  of  chicory  coif  ee  .... 
all  old  Germans  smell  like  that.  He  was  intro- 
duced to  me ;  he  was  a  certain  Schimmel,  a  teacher 
of  the  German  language  in  the  family  of  Prince 
X***,  a  neighbour  of  Priimkoff .  It  appears  that 
he  is  a  favourite  of  Vyera  Nikolaevna's,  and  she 
had  invited  him  to  be  present  at  the  reading.  We 
dined  late  and  did  not  leave  the  table  for  a  long 
time;  then  we  went  for  a  stroll.  The  weather 
was  magnificent.  It  had  rained  in  the  morning, 
and  the  wind  had  been  blowing ;  but  toward  even- 
ing everything  had  quieted  down.  She  and  I 
emerged  into  an  open  glade.  Directly  above 
this  glade,  a  large,  rosy  cloud  hung  high  and 
light;  grey  streaks,  like  smoke,  stretched  across 
it;  on  its  extreme  edge  twinkled  a  tiny  star,  now 
appearing,  now  disappearing,  while  a  little  fur- 
ther off  the  white  sickle  of  the  moon  was  visible 
against  the  faintly  crimsoned  azure.  I  pointed 
out  the  cloud  to  Vyera  Nikolaevna. 

"  Yes,"— she  said:—"  it  is  very  beautiful;  but 
look  yonder."— I   looked.      A   huge,   dark-blue 

157 


"  FAUST  " 

storm-cloud  was  ascending  like  smoke,  and  con- 
cealing the  setting  sun ;  in  aspect,  it  presented  the 
likeness  of  a  mountain  spouting  fire ;  its  crest  was 
spread  athwart  the  sky  in  a  broad  sheaf;  an  om- 
inous crimson  glow  surrounded  it  with  a  brilliant 
border,  and  in  one  spot,  at  the  very  centre  of  it, 
forced  its  way  through  the  heavy  mass,  as  though 
tearing  itself  free  from  a  red-hot  crater.  .  .  . 

"  There  is  going  to  be  a  thunder-storm,"— re- 
marked PriimkofF. 

But  I  am  getting  away  from  the  main  point. — 
In  my  last  letter  I  forgot  to  tell  thee  that  on  my 
return  home  from  the  Priimkoffs',  I  repented 
of  having  named  "  Faust  "  in  particular;  Schiller 
would  have  been  much  more  suitable  for  a  first 
reading,  if  it  must  be  a  German.  I  was  particu- 
larly alarmed  by  the  first  scene,  before  the  ac- 
quaintance with  Gretchen;  I  was  uneasy  on  the 
score  of  Mephistopheles  also.  But  I  was  under 
the  influence  of  "  Faust,"  and  could  not  have 
read  anything  else  with  good  will.  It  was  al- 
ready perfectly  dark  when  we  betook  ourselves 
to  the  little  Chinese  house;  it  had  been  put  in 
order  the  day  before.  Directly  opposite  the  door, 
in  front  of  a  small  divan,  stood  a  round  table, 
covered  with  a  cloth;  chairs  and  arm-chairs  were 
set  round  about;  on  the  table  burned  a  lamp.  I 
seated  myself  on  the  divan,  and  got  my  book. 
Vyera  Nikolaevna  placed  herself  in  an  arm- 
chair at  some  distance,  not  far  from  the  door. 

158 


"  FAUST  " 

Beyond  the  door,  in  the  darkness,  a  green  branch 
of  acacia,  illuminated  by  the  lamp,  displayed 
itself,  swaying  gently;  now  and  then  a  current 
of  night  air  diffused  itself  through  the  room. 
Priimkoff  sat  down  near  me,  at  the  table,  the 
German  by  his  side.  The  governess  had  re- 
mained in  the  house  with  Natasha.  I  made  a  lit- 
tle introductory  speech;  I  alluded  to  the  ancient 
legend  of  Dr.  Faustus,  to  the  significance  of 
Mephistopheles,  to  Goethe  himself,  and  begged 
that  they  would  stop  me  if  anything  should 
seem  to  them  unintelligible.  Then  I  cleared  my 
throat.  .  .  .  PriimkofF  asked  me  whether  I  did 
not  need  some  sugar  and  water,  and,  so  far  as  I 
was  able  to  observe,  was  greatly  pleased  with 
himself  for  having  put  that  question  to  me.  I 
declined.  Profound  silence  reigned.  I  began 
to  read,  without  raising  my  eyes;  I  felt  awk- 
ward, my  heart  beat  violently  and  my  voice 
trembled.  The  first  exclamation  of  sympathy 
burst  from  the  German,  and  he  alone,  during  the 
course  of  the  reading,  broke  the  silence.  .  .  . 
"Wonderful!  Sublime!"— he  kept  repeating, 
now  and  then  adding:  "  Here  it  is  deep."  Pri- 
imkofF was  bored,  as  I  could  plainly  see;  he  un- 
derstood German  imperfectly,  and  confessed 
that  he  was  not  fond  of  poetry!  ....  It  was 
his  own  fault.— At  table,  I  had  wanted  to  hint 
that  the  reading  could  proceed  without  him,  but 
had  been  ashamed  to  do  so.    Vyera  Nikolaevna 

159 


FAUST 


>> 


did  not  stir;  a  couple  of  times  I  shot  a  stealthy 
glance  at  her;  her  eyes  were  fixed  straight  and 
attentively  on  me;  her  face  seemed  to  me  to  be 
pale.  After  Faust's  first  meeting  with  Gret- 
chen,  she  separated  herself  from  the  back  of  her 
chair,  clasped  her  hands,  and  remained  motion- 
less in  that  attitude  until  the  end.  I  felt  con- 
scious that  Priimkoif  found  it  disgusting,  and 
at  first  this  chilled  me;  but  gradually  I  forgot 
all  about  him,  \''^armed  up,  and  read  with  fervour, 
with  enthusiasm.  ...  I  was  reading  for  Vyera 
Nikolaevna  alone;  an  inward  voice  told  me  that 
"  Faust "  was  taking  effect  on  her.  When  I 
had  finished  (I  skipped  the  intermezzo;  that  bit, 
by  its  style,  belongs  to  the  second  part;  and  I 
also  omitted  portions  from  the  "  Night  on  the 
Brocken ")  ....  when  I  had  finished,  when 
the  last  "Heinrich!"  had  rung  out, — the  Ger- 
man ejaculated  with  emotion:  "Heavens!  how 
beautiful!  "  Priimkoff  sprang  to  his  feet  as 
though  delighted  (poor  fellow!),  heaved  a  sigh, 
and  began  to  thank  me  for  the  pleasure  I  had 
given  them.  .  .  .  But  I  did  not  answer  him;  I 
glanced  at  Vyera  Nikolaevna.  ...  I  wanted  to 
hear  what  she  would  say.  She  rose,  walked  to  the 
door  with  wavering  steps,  stood  awhile  on  the 
threshold,  and  then  quietly  went  out  into  the 
garden.  I  rushed  after  her.  She  had  already 
succeeded  in  getting  several  paces  away;  her 
white  gown  was  barely  visible  in  the  dense 
shadow. 

160 


"  FAUST  " 

"  Well?  "  I  cried;-"  did  n't  you  like  it?  " 

She  halted. 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  that  book?  " — her  voice 
rang  out. 

*'  I  will  make  you  a  present  of  it,  Vyera  Niko- 
laevna,  if  you  care  to  have  it." 

"Thank  you!"— she  rephed,  and  vanished. 

PriimkofF  and  the  German  approached  me. 

"How  wonderfully  warm  it  is!" — remarked 
PriimkofF;— "  even  sultry.  But  where  has  my 
wife  gone?  " 

"  To  the  house,  I  believe," — I  replied. 

"  I  think  it  will  soon  be  supper-time," — he  re- 
sponded.— "  You  read  capitally,  capitally," — he 
added,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"  Vyera  Nikolaevna  seemed  to  be  pleased  with 
*  Faust,'  "  I  remarked. 

"Without  doubt!" — exclaimed  Priimkoff. 

"  Oh,  of  course!  "—chimed  in  Schimmel. 

We  entered  the  house. 

"Where  is  the  mistress?  "—Priimkoff  asked 
of  a  maid  whom  we  encountered. 

"  She  has  been  pleased  to  go  to  her  bedroom." 

PriimkofF  directed  his  steps  to  the  bedroom. 

I  went  out  on  the  terrace  with  Schimmel.  The 
old  man  raised  his  eyes  to  the  sky. 

"  How  many  stars  there  are! " — he  said  slowly, 
as  he  took  a  pinch  of  snufF;— "  and  all  of  them 
are  worlds," — he  added,  taking  another  pinch. 

I  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  answer  him, 
and  only  gazed  upward  in  silence.    A  secret  per- 

161 


"  FAUST  " 

plexity  was  weighing  on  my  soul.  .  .  .  The  stars 
seemed  to  me  to  be  gazing  seriously  at  us.  Five 
minutes  later,  Priimkoff  made  his  appearance 
and  summoned  us  to  the  dining-room.  Vyera 
Nikolaevna  soon  came  also.    We  sat  down. 

"  Just  look  at  Vyerotchka,"— said  Priimkoff 
to  rre. 

I  glanced  at  her. 

"Well?    Don't  you  notice  anything?" 

I  really  did  note  a  change  in  her  face,  but  I 
know  not  why  I  answered: 

"  No,  nothing." 

"  Her  eyes  are  red," — went  on  Priimkoff. 

I  held  my  peace. 

"  Just  fancy,  I  went  to  her  up-stairs,  and 
found  her;  she  was  crying.  It  is  a  long  time 
since  that  has  happened  with  her.  I  can  tell  you 
the  last  time  she  cried:  it  was  when  our  Sasha 
died.  So  that  's  what  you  have  done  with  your 
'  Faust '!  "  he  added  with  a  smile. 

"  You  must  see  now,  Vyera  Nikolaevna,"— I 
began,—"  that  I  was  right  when  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  had  not  expected  that,"— she  interrupted 
me; — "but  God  knows  whether  you  are  right. 
Perhaps  the  reason  my  mother  prohibited  my 
reading  such  books  was  because  she  knew  .  .  .  ." 

Vyera  Nikolaevna  stopped  short. 

"Because  she  knew?  "—I  repeated.— "  Tell 
me. 

"  What  is  the  use?    I  am  ashamed  of  myself 

162 


"  FAUST  " 

as  it  is;  what  was  I  crying  about?  However,  you 
and  I  will  discuss  this  further.  There  were  many 
things  which  I  did  not  quite  understand." 

"  Then  why  did  n't  you  stop  me?  " 

"  I  understood  all  the  words,  and  their  sense, 
but  .  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  finish  her  phrase,  and  became  pen- 
sive. At  that  moment,  the  noise  of  the  foliage, 
suddenly  stirred  by  the  rising  wind,  swept 
through  the  garden.  Vyera  Nikolaevna  started, 
and  turned  her  face  toward  the  open  window. 

"  I  told  you  that  there  would  be  a  thunder- 
storm! " — cried  PriimkofF.  —  "  But  what  makes 
thee  tremble  so,  Vyerotchka? " 

She  glanced  at  him  in  silence.  The  lightning, 
flashing  faintly  far  away,  was  reflected  on  her 
impassive  face. 

"  All  thanks  to  '  Faust,' " — went  on  Priimkofl". 

"  After  supper,  we  must  go  immediately  to 
bye-bye,  ....  must  n't  we,  Herr  Schimmel?  " 

"  After  moral  pleasure  physical  repose  is  as 
beneficial  as  it  is  useful,"— replied  the  good  Ger- 
man, drinking  ofl*  a  glass  of  vodka. 

We  parted  immediately  after  supper.  As 
I  bade  Vyera  Nikolaevna  good  night,  I  shook 
hands  with  her;  her  hand  was  cold.  I  reached 
the  chamber  assigned  to  me,  and  stood  for  a  long 
time  at  the  window  before  undressing  and  get- 
ting into  bed. 

Priimkofl"s  prediction  was  fulfilled;  a  thun- 

163 


"  FAUST  " 

der-storm  gathered  and  broke.  I  listened  to  the 
roar  of  the  wind,  the  clatter  and  beating  of  the 
rain,  I  saw  how,  at  every  flash  of  lightning,  the 
church,  built  close  at  hand,  near  the  lake,  now 
suddenly  was  revealed  in  black  against  a  white 
ground,  then  as  white  against  a  black  ground, 
then  again  was  swallowed  up  in  the  gloom.  .  .  . 
But  my  thoughts  were  far  away.  I  was  thinking 
of  Vyera  Nikolaevna:  I  was  thinking  of  what 
she  would  say  to  me  when  she  should  have  read 
"Faust"  herself;  I  was  thinking  of  her  tears; 
I  was  recalling  how  she  had  listened.  .  .  . 

The  thunder-storm  had  long  since  passed  off, 
— the  stars  were  beaming,  everything  had  fallen 
silent  round  about.  Some  bird  with  which  I  was 
not  famihar  was  singing  in  various  tones,  re- 
peating the  same  phrase  several  times  in  suc- 
cession. Its  resonant,  solitary  voice  rang  out 
oddly  amid  the  profound  silence;  and  still  I  did 
not  go  to  bed.  .  .  . 

On  the  following  morning  I  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room earlier  than  all  the  rest,  and  halted  in 
front  of  Madame  Eltzoff's  portrait.— "  What 
didst  thou  make  by  it?  "—I  thought,  with  a  se- 
cret feeling  of  jeering  triumph,—"  for  here, 
seest  thou,  I  have  read  to  thy  daughter  a  for- 
bidden book!"  All  at  once,  it  seemed  to  me 
....  probably  thou  hast  noticed  that  eyes 
painted  en  face  always  seem  to  be  riveted 
straight  on  the  spectator?  .  .  .  But  on  this  oc- 

164 


FAUST 


>> 


casion,  it  really  did  seem  to  me  as  though  the  old 
lady  had  turned  them  on  me  reproachfully. 

I  turned  away,  walked  to  the  window,  and 
beheld  Vj^era  Nikolaevna.  With  a  parasol  on 
her  shoulder,  and  a  thin  white  kerchief  on  her 
head,  she  was  strolling  in  the  garden.  I  imme- 
diately went  out  and  bade  her  good  morning.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  not  slept  all  night," — she  said  to  me; 
—  "I  have  a  headache;  I  have  come  out  into  the 
air  to  see  if  it  will  not  pass  off." 

"  Can  it  have  been  caused  by  last  night's  read- 
ing? " — I  asked. 

"Of  course  it  was;  I  am  not  used  to  that. 
There  are  things  in  that  book  of  yours  which  I 
cannot  get  rid  of;  it  seems  to  me  that  they  are 
fairly  searing  my  brain,"  —  she  added,  laying  her 
hand  on  her  brow. 

"Very  good  indeed,"  — said  I:  —  "but  this  is 
the  bad  thing  about  it :  I  'm  afraid  this  sleepless- 
ness and  headache  have  destroyed  your  wish  to 
read  such  things." 

"  Do  you  think  so?  " — she  returned,  breaking 
off  a  spray  of  wild  jasmine  as  she  passed. — 
"  God  knows!  It  seems  to  me  that  any  one 
who  has  entered  upon  that  road  cannot  turn 
back." 

She  suddenly  flung  aside  the  spray. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  in  that  arbour," — she  went 
on, — "  and  until  I  speak  to  you  of  it  myself, 
please  do  not  remind  me  ....  of  that  book." 

165 


"  FAUST  " 

( She  seemed  to  be  afraid  to  pronounce  the  name 
of  "Faust.") 

We  entered  the  arbour  and  seated  ourselves. 

"  I  will  not  talk  to  you  about  '  Faust,'  "  I  be- 
gan;—" but  you  must  allow  me  to  congratulate 
you,  and  to  tell  you  that  I  envy  you." 

"  You  envy  me?  " 

"  Yes ;  as  I  know  you  now,  with  your  soul, 
how  much  enjoyment  you  have  in  store!  There 
are  other  great  poets  besides  Goethe :  Shakspeare, 
Schiller  ....  yes,  and  our  own  Pushkin  .... 
and  you  must  make  acquaintance  with  them  also." 

She  maintained  silence,  and  drew  figures  on 
the  sand  with  her  parasol. 

Oh,  my  friend,  Semyon  Nikolaitch!  if  thou 
couldst  but  have  seen  how  charming  she  was  at 
that  moment!  Pale  almost  to  transparency, 
slightly  bent  forward,  weary,  inwardly  dis- 
traught,— and  nevertheless  serene  as  the  sky!  I 
talked,  talked  a  long  time,  then  fell  silent — and 
sat  there  silently  watching  her.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  and  continued  now 
to  sketch  with  her  parasol,  now  to  erase  what  she 
had  drawn.  Suddenly  the  sound  of  brisk,  child- 
ish footsteps  resounded:  Natasha  ran  into  the 
arbour.  Vyera  Nikolaevna  straightened  her- 
self up,  rose,  and,  to  my  amazement,  embraced 
her  daughter  with  a  sort  of  impulsive  tenderness. 
....  This  was  not  her  habit.  Then  PriimkofF 
made   his    appearance.      That   grey-haired    but 

166 


"  FAUST  " 

punctual,  fine  fellow  Schimmel  had  gone  away 
before  daybreak,  in  order  not  to  miss  his  lesson. 
We  went  to  drink  tea. 

But  I  am  tired;  it  is  time  to  bring  this  letter 
to  an  end.  It  must  seem  silly,  confused  to  thee. 
I  feel  confused  myself.  I  am  out  of  sorts.  I 
don't  know  what  ails  me.  There  is  constantly 
flitting  before  my  vision  a  tiny  room  with  bare 
walls,  a  lamp,  an  open  door,  the  scent  and  fresh- 
ness of  night,  and  there,  near  the  door,  an  at- 
tentive young  face,  thin,  white  garments.  .  .  . 
I  understand  now  why  I  wanted  to  marry  her; 
evidently,  I  was  not  so  stupid  before  my  trip  to 
Berlin  as  I  have  hitherto  thought.  Yes,  Semyon 
Nikolaitch,  your  friend  is  in  a  strange  frame 
of  mind.  All  this  will  pass  off,  I  know  .  .  .  but 
what  if  it  should  not  pass  off — well,  what  then? 
I  am  satisfied  with  myself,  nevertheless;  in  the 
first  place,  I  have  spent  a  wonderful  evening; 
and  in  the  second  place,  if  I  have  awakened  that 
soul,  who  can  blame  me?  Old  Madame  Eltzoff 
is  nailed  to  the  wall  and  must  hold  her  peace. 
The  old  lady!  ....  I  do  not  know  all  the 
particulars  of  her  life;  but  I  do  know  that  she 
eloped  from  her  father's  house;  evidently,  she 
was  not  born  of  an  Italian  mother  for  noth- 
ing. She  wanted  to  insure  her  daughter.  We 
shall  see. 

I  fling  aside  my  pen.  Thou,  jeering  man, 
please  to  think  of  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  don't 

167 


"  FAUST  " 

make  fun  of  me  by  letter.  Thou  and  I  are  old 
friends,  and  must  spare  each  other.     Farewell! 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

FIFTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  July  26,  1850. 

I  HAVE  not  written  to  thee  for  a  long  time,  my 
dear  Semyon  Nikolaitch;  not  for  more  than  a 
month,  I  think.  There  has  been  plenty  to  write 
about;  but  I  have  been  too  lazy.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  have  hardly  thought  of  thee  during  the 
whole  of  that  time.  But  I  may  deduce  from 
thy  last  letter  to  me  that  thou  art  making  as- 
sumptions about  me  which  are  unjust;  that  is  to 
say,  not  quite  just.  Thou  thinkest  that  I  am  car- 
ried away  by  Vyera  ( somehow,  I  find  it  awkward 
to  call  her  Vyera  Nikolaevna)  ;  thou  art  mistaken. 
Of  course,  I  see  her  frequently;  I  like  her  ex- 
tremely ....  and  who  would  not  like  her?  I  should 
just  like  to  see  thee  in  my  place.  She  's  a  won- 
derful creature !  Instantaneous  penetration  hand 
in  hand  with  the  inexperience  of  a  baby;  clear, 
sound  sense  and  innate  feeling  for  beauty,  a  con- 
stant striving  for  the  truth,  for  the  lofty,  and  a 
comprehension  of  everything,  even  of  the  vicious, 
even  of  the  ridiculous— and,  over  all  this,  like 

168 


"  FAUST  " 

the  white  wings  of  an  angel,  gentle  feminine 
charm.  .  .  .  But  what 's  the  use  of  talking  I  We 
have  read  a  great  deal,  discussed  a  great  deal,  she 
and  I,  in  the  course  of  this  month.  To  read  with 
her  is  a  delight  such  as  I  have  not  hitherto  ex- 
perienced. It  is  as  though  one  were  opening 
fresh  pages.  She  never  goes  into  raptures  over 
anything;  everything  noisy  is  alien  to  her;  she 
quietly  beams  all  over  when  anything  pleases 
her,  and  her  face  assumes  such  a  noble,  good 
....  precisely  that,  good  expression.  From 
her  earliest  childhood  Vyera  has  never  known 
what  it  is  to  lie;  she  has  become  accustomed  to 
the  truth,  she  is  redolent  of  it,  and  therefore  in 
poetry  the  truth  alone  appears  natural  to  her; 
she  immediately  recognises  it,  without  difficulty, 
as  a  familiar  face  ....  a  great  advantage  and 
happiness!  It  is  impossible  not  to  hold  her 
mother  in  kindly  memory  for  that.  How  many 
times  have  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  Vyera: 
"  Yes,  Goethe  is  right: — '  a  good  man  in  his  ob- 
scure aspirations  always  feels  where  the  true 
road  lies.'  "  ^  One  thing  is  vexatious ;  her  husband 
is  always  hanging  around.  (Please  don't  in- 
dulge in  your  stupid  laugh,  don't  sully  our 
friendship  by  even  so  much  as  a  thought. )  He  is 
as  capable  of  understanding  poetry  as  I  am  of 
playing  the  flute,  and  he  won't  leave  his  wife;  he 
wants  to  be  enlightened  also.     Sometimes  she 

1  "  Faust,"  the  Prologue  to  Part  I. 

169 


"  FAUST  *' 

herself  puts  me  out  of  patience:  a  queer  sort  of 
mood  will  suddenly  come  over  her;  she  will  nei- 
ther read  nor  converse;  she  works  at  her  em- 
broidery-frame, and  fusses  with  Natasha,  with 
the  housekeeper,  suddenly  runs  off  to  the  kitchen, 
or  simply  sits  with  folded  hands  and  staj-es  out 
of  the  window,  or  sets  to  playing  "  fool "  *  with 
the  nurse.  ...  I  have  observed  that  on  such 
occasions  I  must  not  worry  her,  but  that  it  is  best 
to  wait  until  she  herself  approaches  me,  and 
starts  a  conversation,  or  takes  up  a  book.  She 
has  a  great  deal  of  independence,  and  I  am  very 
glad  of  that.  Dost  thou  remember  how,  in  the 
days  of  our  youth,  some  young  girl  or  other 
would  repeat  to  thee  thy  own  words,  to  the  best 
of  her  ability,  and  thou  wouldst  go  into  raptures 
over  that  echo  and,  probably,  bow  down  before 
it,  until  thou  didst  get  an  inkling  of  the  real 
state  of  the  case?  But  this  woman  ...  no;  she 
thinks  for  herself.  She  will  accept  nothing  on 
faith;  one  cannot  frighten  her  by  authority;  she 
will  not  dispute;  but  she  will  not  give  in.  She 
and  I  have  argued  over  "  Faust "  more  than 
once;  but — strange  to  say! — she  never  says  any- 
thing about  Gretchen  herself,  but  merely  listens 
to  what  I  say  of  her.  Mephistopheles  alarms 
her,  not  as  the  devil,  but  as  "  something  which 
may  exist  in  every  man.  .  .  ."  Those  are  her 
very  words.     I  undertook  to  explain  to  her  that 

1  A  Russian  card-game. — Thanslatoe. 

170 


"  FAUST  " 

we  called  that  "something"  reflex  action;  but 
she  did  not  understand  the  words  "  reflex  action  " 
in  the  German  sense ;  she  knows  only  the  French 
" reflexion''  and  has  become  accustomed  to  con- 
sider it  useful. 

Our  relations  are  remarkable!  From  a  cer- 
tain point  of  view  I  may  say  that  I  have  great 
influence  over  her,  and  am  educating  her,  as  it 
were;  but  without  herself  being  aware  of  the 
fact,  she  is  transforming  many  things  in  me  for 
the  better.  For  example,  it  is  solely  due  to  her 
that  I  have  recently  discovered  what  an  immense 
amount  of  the  conventional,  the  rhetorical  there  is 
in  the  finest,  the  most  famous  poetical  produc- 
tions. That  to  which  she  remains  cold  becomes 
at  once  suspicious  in  my  eyes.  Yes,  I  have  grown 
better,  more  serene.  To  be  intimate  with  her,  to 
meet  her,  and  remain  the  same  man  as  before  is 
an  impossibility. 

"  What  is  to  be  the  upshot  of  all  this?  "  thou 
wilt  ask.  Why,  really,  nothing,  I  think.  I  am 
passing  my  time  very  agreeably  until  September, 
and  then  I  shall  go  away.  Life  will  seem  dark 
and  tedious  to  me  during  the  first  months.  .  .  . 
But  I  shall  get  used  to  it.  I  know  how  danger- 
ous is  any  sort  of  a  tie  between  a  man  and  a 
young  woman,  how  imperceptibly  one  feeling 
is  replaced  by  another.  ...  I  would  have  man- 
aged to  wTcnch  myself  away,  had  I  not  known 
that  both  of  us  are  perfectly  calm.     Truth  to 

171 


"  FAUST  " 

tell,  one  day  something  strange  happened  with 
us.  I  know  not  how,  and  as  a  result  of  what — 
I  remember  that  we  were  reading  "  Onyegin  "  ^ 
—and  I  kissed  her  hand.  She  recoiled  slightly, 
riveted  a  glance  upon  me  (I  have  never  be- 
held such  a  glance  in  any  one  but  her ;  it  contains 
both  pensiveness  and  attention,  and  a  sort  of 
severity)  ....  suddenly  blushed,  rose,  and  left 
the  room.  I  did  not  succeed  in  being  alone  with 
her  again  that  day.  She  avoided  me,  and  for  four 
mortal  hours  played  with  her  husband,  the 
nurse,  and  the  governess  at  "  Trumps."  The 
next  morning  she  suggested  that  we  should  go 
into  the  garden.  We  walked  the  whole  length 
of  it,  clear  to  the  lake.  Suddenly  she  whispered 
softly,  without  turning  toward  me:  "Please 
don't  do  that  again!"— and  immediately  began 
to  narrate  something  to  me.  ...  I  was  very 
much  abashed. 

I  must  confess  that  her  image  never  leaves  my 
mind,  and  I  probably  have  begun  to  write  this 
letter  to  thee  more  with  the  object  of  securing 
the  possibility  of  thinking  and  talking  about  her, 
than  anything  else.  I  hear  the  neighing  and 
tramphng  of  horses:  it  is  my  calash  being 
brought  round.  I  am  going  to  their  house. 
My  coachman  no  longer  asks  me  whither  he 
shall  drive  when  I  take  my  seat  in  the  equi- 
page,—he    drives    straight    to   the    Priimkoffs'. 

1  Pushkin's  poem,  "  Evgeny  Onydgin."— Translator. 

172 


"  FAUST  " 

Two  versts  distant  from  their  village,  at  a  sharp 
turn  of  the  road,  their  manor-house  suddenly 
peers  forth  from  behind  a  birch-grove.  .  .  .  EfVery 
time  my  heart  leaps  with  joy  as  soon  as  the  win- 
dows of  her  house  gleam  forth.  Schimmel  (that 
harmless  old  man  comes  to  them  occasionally; 
they  have  seen  the  family  of  Prince  X***  only 
once,  thank  God!)  ....  Schimmel  says,  not 
without  cause,  with  the  modest  triumph  peculiar 
to  him,  as  he  points  to  the  house  where  Vyera 
dwells:  "That  is  the  abode  of  peace!"  The 
angel  of  peace  has  taken  up  its  abode  in  that 

house.  ... 

Cover  me  with  thy  pinions, 
My  heart's  emotion  allay, — 
And  blessed  shall  be  that  shadow 
For  my  enchanted  soul.  .  .  . 

But  come,  enough  of  this, — or  God  knows  what 
thou  wilt  think, — until  the  next  time.  .  .  .  What 
shall  I  write  the  next  time? — Good-bye! — By  the 
way,  she  will  never  say  "  good-bye,"  but  always: 
"  Well,  good-bye."— I  like  that  awfully. 

Thine, 

P.  B. 

P.  S. — I  don't  remember  whether  I  have  told 
thee  that  she  knows  I  proposed  for  her  hand. 


173 


(( 


FAUST  " 


SIXTH  LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  August  10,  1850. 
Confess  that  thou  art  expecting  either  a  despair- 
ing or  a  rapturous  letter  from  me.  .  .  .  Nothing 
of  the  sort.  My  letter  will  be  like  all  letters. 
Nothing  new  has  happened,  and  nothing  can  hap- 
pen, I  think.  The  other  day  we  were  rowing  in 
a  boat  on  the  lake.  I  will  describe  that  jaunt 
to  thee.  There  were  three  of  us:  she,  Schimmel 
and  I.  I  cannot  understand  what  possesses  her  to 
invite  that  old  man  so  often.  The  X***s  are  put 
out  with  him,  they  say,  because  he  has  begun  to 
neglect  his  lessons.  But  on  this  occasion  he  was 
amusing.  Priimkoff  did  not  go  with  us:  he  had 
a  headache.  The  weather  was  magnificent,  cheer- 
ful ;  there  were  huge  white  ragged-looking  storm- 
clouds  all  over  the  blue  sky ;  everywhere  there  was 
a  gleam,  a  rustling  in  the  trees,  a  plashing  and 
rippling  of  the  water  on  the  shores ;  on  the  waves 
darting  golden  serpents  of  light,  coolness  and 
sunshine!— At  first  I  and  the  German  rowed; 
then  we  raised  the  sail  and  dashed  headlong  on- 
ward. The  bow  of  the  boat  fairly  dived  through 
the  waves,  and  the  wake  behind  the  stern  hissed 
and  foamed.  She  sat  at  the  helm  and  steered; 
she  had  tied  a  kerchief  over  her  head:  a  hat 

J74 


"  FAUST  " 

would  have  blown  off ;  her  curls  burst  forth  from 
beneath  it,  and  floated  softly  on  the  breeze. 
She  held  the  helm  firmly  with  her  sun-burned 
little  hand,  and  smiled  at  the  splashes  of  water 
which  flew  in  her  face  from  time  to  time.  I  curled 
myself  up  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  not  far  from 
her  feet,  the  German  pulled  out  his  pipe,  lighted 
up  his  coarse  tobacco,  and— just  fancy  I— began 
to  sing  in  a  fairly  agreeable  bass  voice.  First  he 
sang  the  old  ballad :  "  Freuf  euch  des  Lehens'* 
then  an  aria  from  "  The  Magic  Flute,"  then  a 
romance  entitled  "Love's  Alphabet  "—'^'^Z)  as 
A-B-C  der  Liehe."  In  this  romance  the  whole 
alphabet  is  recited, — with  appropriate  quaint 
sayings,  of  course, — beginning  with:  "Ah,  Bay, 
Say,  Day,—  Wenn  ich  dich  seh!"  and  ending 
with"Oo,Fau,Vay,Eeks,—Mach  einen  Knicks!" 
He  sang  all  the  couplets  through  with  tender 
expression;  but  thou  shouldst  have  seen  how 
roguishly  he  screwed  up  his  left  eye  at  the  word 
"  Knicks  "I—Yyersi  burst  out  laughing  and 
shook  her  finger  at  him.  I  remarked  that  it  struck 
me  Herr  Schirmnel  had  been  no  fool  in  his  day. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  could  stand  up  for  myself!  "  he  re- 
plied pompously,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe  into  his  palm ;  and  thrusting  his  fingers  into 
his  tobacco-pouch,  he  gripped  the  mouthpiece  of 
his  pipe  swaggeringly,  on  one  side,  with  his  teeth. 
"  When  I  was  a  student,"— he  added,—"  o-ho- 
ho  I  "    He  said  no  more.    But  what  an  "  o-ho-ho  I " 

175 


"  FAUST  " 

that  was! — Vyera  requested  him  to  sing  some 
student  song,  and  he  sang  to  her :  "  Knasier,  den 
gelhen,"  but  got  out  of  tune  on  the  last  note. 

In  the  meantime,  the  wind  had  increased,  the 
waves  had  begun  to  run  rather  high,  the  boat 
careened  over  somewhat;  swallows  were  darting 
low  around  us.  We  put  the  sail  over  and  began 
to  jibe.  The  wind  suddenly  veered  about;  we  had 
not  succeeded  in  completing  the  manoeuvre,  when 
a  wave  dashed  over  the  side,  and  the  boat  took  in 
a  quantity  of  water.  Here,  also,  the  German 
showed  himself  to  be  a  fine  fellow;  he  snatched 
the  sheet-rope  from  my  hand,  and  jibed  in  proper 
fashion,  remarking,  as  he  did  so:  "  That  's  the 
way  they  do  at  Kuxhafen!  "—"So  macht  mans 
in  Kuxhafen! " 

Vyera  was  probably  frightened,  for  she  turned 
pale;  but,  according  to  her  wont,  she  did  not 
utter  a  word,  but  gathered  up  her  gown  and 
placed  her  feet  on  the  thwart  of  the  boat.  Sud- 
denly there  flashed  across  my  mind  Goethe's 
poem  (I  have  been  thoroughly  infected  by  him 
for  some  time  past)  ....  dost  thou  remember 
it?  "  On  the  waves  twinkle  thousands  of  quiv- 
ering stars  " ;  and  I  recited  it  aloud.  When  I 
reached  the  line:  " Mine  eyes,  why  do  ye  droop?" 
she  raised  her  eyes  a  little  (I  was  sitting  lower 
than  she:  her  glance  fell  upon  me  from  above) 
and  gazed  for  a  long  time  into  the  far  distance, 
narrowing  her  eyes  to  protect  them  from  the 

176 


"  FAUST  " 

M^nd.  ...  A  light  rain  came  up  in  an  instant, 
and  pattered  in  bubbles  on  the  water.  I  offered 
her  my  overcoat;  she  threw  it  over  her  shoulders. 
We  landed  on  the  shore, — not  at  the  wharf, — 
and  went  to  the  house  on  foot.  I  walked  arm  in 
arm  with  her.  All  the  time  I  felt  like  saying 
something  to  her;  but  I  held  my  peace.  But  I 
remember  asking  her  why,  when  she  was  at  home, 
she  always  sat  under  the  portrait  of  Madame 
EltzofF,  just  like  a  birdling  under  its  mother's 
wing. — "  Your  comparison  is  very  accurate," — 
she  replied:  — "  I  should  never  wish  to  emerge 
from  beneath  her  wing."  — "  Would  n't  you  like 
to  emerge  into  freedom?  " — I  asked  another  ques- 
tion.    She  made  no  repty. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  have  told  thee  about  this 
expedition, — perhaps  because  it  has  lingered  in 
my  memory  as  one  of  the  brightest  events  of 
recent  days,  although,  in  reality,  how  can  it  be 
called  an  event?  I  was  so  delighted  and  speech- 
lessly happy,  and  tears — light,  happy  tears — 
fairly  gushed  from  my  eyes. 

Yes;  just  fancy!  On  the  following  day,  as  I 
was  strolling  through  the  garden,  past  the  arbour, 
I  suddenly  heard  an  agreeable,  ringing,  feminine 
voice  singing,  "  Freut'  euch  des  Lehens."  .  .  . 
I  glanced  into  the  arbour: — it  was  Vyera. 

"  Bravo!  " — I  exclaimed; — "  I  was  not  aware 
that  you  had  such  a  fine  voice!"  — She  was 
abashed,  and  stopped  singing.    Seriously,  she  has 

177 


"  FAUST  " 

an  excellent,  strong  soprano  voice.  But  I  don't 
believe  she  even  suspected  that  she  had  a  good 
voice.  How  many  untouched  treasures  are  still 
concealed  in  her  I  She  does  not  know  herself .  But 
such  a  woman  is  a  rarity  in  our  day,  is  she  not  ? 

August  12. 
\Ve  had  a  ver\'  strange  conversation  yesterday. 
First  we  talked  about  visions.  Just  imagine ;  she 
beheves  in  them,  and  says  that  she  has  her  rea- 
sons for  so  doing.  Priimkoff,  who  was  sitting 
with  us,  dropped  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head,  as 
though  in  confirmation  of  her  words.  I  tried  to 
interrogate  her;  but  speedily  perceived  that  the 
conversation  was  disagreeable  to  her.  We  be- 
gan to  talk  about  imagination,  about  the  force 
of  imagination.  I  narrated  how,  in  my  youth, 
being  in  the  habit  of  dreaming  a  great  deal  about 
happiness  (the  customary  occupation  of  people 
who  have  not  had.  or  will  not  have  luck  in  life), 
I  had,  among  other  things,  dreamed  of  what 
bliss  it  would  be  to  pass  a  few  weeks  in  ^'enice 
with  the  woman  I  loved.  I  thought  of  this  so 
often,  especially  at  night,  that  I  gradually  formed 
in  my  mind  a  complete  picture,  which  I  could 
summon  up  before  me  at  will:  all  I  had  to  do 
was  to  shut  my  eyes.  This  is  what  presented 
itself  to  me:  — Xight,  the  moon,  white  and  tender 
moonlight,  fragrance  ....  the  fragrance  of  the 
orange-flower,   thinkest   thou?     Xo,   of  vanilla, 

178 


"  FAUST  " 

the  fragrance  of  the  cactus,  a  broad  watery 
expanse,  a  flat  island  overgrown  with  olive- 
trees;  on  the  island,  on  the  ver^^  shore,  a  small 
marble  house,  with  wide-open  windows;  music 
is  audible— whence,  God  knows;  in  the  house 
are  trees  with  dark  foliage,  and  the  light  of  a 
half -veiled  lamp;  a  hea\y  velvet  mantle  with 
golden  fringe  has  been  thrown  over  one  window- 
sill,  and  one  end  of  it  is  trailing  in  the  water; 
while,  side  by  side,  with  their  arms  resting  on  the 
mantle,  sit  he  and  she,  gazing  far  away  to  the 
spot  where  Venice  is  visible.— All  this  presented 
itself  to  me  as  plainly  as  though  I  had  beheld  it 
all  with  my  own  eyes. 

She  listened  to  my  nonsense,  and  said  that  she 
also  often  indulged  in  reverie,  but  that  her  dreams 
were  of  a  different  nature:  she  either  imagined 
herself  on  the  plains  of  Africa,  with  some  trav- 
eller or  other,  or  hunting  for  the  traces  of 
Franklin  in  the  Arctic  Ocean;  she  vividly  pic- 
tured to  herself  all  the  hardships  which  she  must 
undergo,  all  the  difficulties  with  which  she  must 
contend.  .  .  . 

"  Thou  hast  read  a  quantity  of  travels," — re- 
marked her  husband. 

"  Perhaps  so," — she  rejoined.  "  But  if  one  is 
to  dream,  what  possesses  one  to  dream  of  the  im- 
possible? " 

"But  why  not?" — I  interposed.  — "  How  is 
the  poor  impossible  to  blame?  " 

179 


"  FAUST  " 

"  I  did  not  express  myself  correctly," — said 
she: — "  I  meant  to  say,  what  possesses  a  person 
to  dream  of  himself,  of  his  own  happiness? 
There  is  no  use  in  thinking  about  it;  if  it  does 
not  come, — why  pursue  it?  It  is  like  health:  when 
one  does  not  notice  it,  it  means  that  one  possesses 
it." 

These  words  amazed  me.  That  woman  has  a 
great  soul,  believe  me.  .  .  .  From  Venice  the 
conversation  passed  to  Italy,  to  the  Italians. 
Priimkoff  left  the  room,  and  Vyera  and  I  were 
left  alone. 

"  There  is  Italian  blood  in  your  veins  also," — 
I  remarked. 

"Yes," — she  responded: — "  I  will  show  you 
the  portrait  of  my  grandmother,  if  you  wish." 

"  Pray  do." 

She  went  into  her  boudoir  and  brought  thence 
a  rather  large  gold  locket.  On  opening  this 
locket,  I  beheld  a  splendidly-painted  miniature 
portrait  of  Madame  Eltzoff 's  father  and  his  wife, 
—that  peasant  from  Albano.  Vyera's  grand- 
father surprised  me  by  his  likeness  to  his  daugh- 
ter. Only  his  features,  rimmed  with  a  white 
cloud  of  powder,  appeared  still  more  severe,  still 
more  sharp  and  pointed,  and  in  his  little,  yellow 
eyes  gleamed  a  sort  of  surly  stubbornness.  But 
what  a  face  the  Italian  girl  had!  sensual,  open 
like  a  full-blown  rose,  with  big,  prominent,  humid 
eyes,   and   conceitedly -smiling,   rosy  lips!     The 

180 


"  FAUST  " 

thin,  sensitive  nostrils  seemed  to  be  quivering,  and 
inflating,  as  after  recent  kisses;  from  her  dark- 
skinned  cheeks  sultry  heat  and  health  seemed  to 
emanate,  and  the  splendour  of  youth,  and  femi- 
nine force.  .  .  .  That  brow  had  never  thought, 
and  God  be  thanked  for  that!  She  was  depicted 
in  her  Albanian  costume;  the  artist  (a  master) 
had  placed  a  spray  of  vine-leaves  in  her  hair, 
which  was  black  as  pitch,  with  bright-grey  reflec- 
tions. Nothing  could  have  been  better  suited  to 
the  expression  of  her  face  than  that  bacchantic 
decoration.  And  knowest  thou,  of  whom  that 
face  reminded  me  ?  Of  my  Manon  Lescaut  in  the 
black  frame.  And,  what  is  most  astonishing  of 
all:  as  I  gazed  at  that  portrait,  I  recalled  the 
fact  that  something  resembling  that  smile,  that 
glance,  sometimes  flits  over  Vyera's  face,  despite 
the  utter  dissimilarity  of  the  outlines.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  repeat  it :  neither  she  herself  nor  any  one 
else  in  all  the  world  knows  what  lies  hidden  within 
her.  .  .  . 

By  the  way!  Madame  filtzoff,  before  her 
daughter's  marriage,  related  to  her  the  story  of 
her  whole  life,  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  so 
forth,  probably  with  the  object  of  edification. 
That  which  had  a  particular  effect  upon  Vyera, 
was  what  she  heard  about  her  grandfather,  about 
that  mysterious  Ladanofl".  Is  it  not  from  him 
that  she  inherits  her  faith  in  visions?  Strange! 
she  herself  is  so  pure  and  bright,  yet  she  is  afraid 

181 


(( 


FAUST 


of  everything  gloomy,  subterranean,  and  believes 
in  it.  .  .  . 

But  enough.  Why  write  all  this?  However, 
since  it  is  already  written,  I  '11  just  send  it  off 
to  thee.  Thine, 

P.  B. 

SEVENTH   LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  August  22. 

I  TAKE  up  my  pen  ten  days  after  the  date  of 
my  last  letter.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  friend,  I  can  no 
longer  dissimulate.  .  .  .  How  painful  it  is  to  me ! 
How  I  love  her!  Thou  canst  imagine  with  what 
a  bitter  shudder  I  write  this  fateful  word.  I  am 
no  boy,  not  even  a  stripling;  I  am  no  longer  at 
the  age  when  it  is  almost  impossible  to  deceive 
another  person,  while  it  costs  no  effort  at  all  to 
deceive  one's  self.  I  know  everything,  and  I  see 
clearly.  I  know  that  I  am  close  on  forty  years  of 
age,  that  she  is  the  wife  of  another,  that  she  loves 
her  husband;  I  know  very  well  that  I  have  no- 
thing to  expect  from  the  unfortunate  sentiment 
which  has  taken  possession  of  me,  save  secret  tor- 
ments and  definitive  waste  of  my  vital  forces, — I 
know  all  this,  I  hope  for  nothing  and  I  desire 
nothing.  But  I  am  no  more  at  my  ease  for  all 
that. 

182 


"  FAUST  " 

A  month  ago  I  began  to  notice  that  my  at- 
tachment for  her  was  becoming  stronger  and 
stronger.  That  partly  disconcerted  me,  partly 
delighted  me.  .  .  .  But  could  I  have  expected 
that  all  that  would  be  repeated  in  me  from  which, 
as  in  youth,  there  is  no  return?  But  what  am  I 
saying!  I  never  have  loved  thus,  no,  never! 
Manon  Lescaut,  the  Fretillons — those  were  my 
idols.  It  is  easy  to  shatter  such  idols;  but  now 
....  and  only  now  have  I  learned  what  it  means 
to  love  a  woman.  I  am  ashamed  even  to  speak  of 
it;  but  so  it  is.  I  am  ashamed.  .  .  .  Love  is 
egoism,  nevertheless ;  but  at  my  age,  egoism  would 
be  unpardonable:  one  cannot  live  for  himself  at 
seven-and-thirty ;  one  must  live  usefully,  with  the 
object  of  fulfilling  one's  duty,  doing  one's  busi- 
ness. And  I  have  tried  to  set  to  work.  .  .  .  And 
lo,  everything  has  been  dissipated  again,  as  by  a 
hurricane!  Now  I  understand  what  I  wrote  to 
thee  in  my  first  letter;  I  understand  what  trial  I 
lacked.  How  suddenly  this  blow  has  descended 
upon  my  head!  I  stand  and  gaze  irrationally 
ahead:  a  black  curtain  hangs  just  in  front  of  my 
eyes;  my  soul  aches  and  is  affrighted!  I  can  re- 
strain myself,  I  am  outwardly  calm,  not  only  in 
the  presence  of  others,  but  even  when  I  am  alone ; 
really,  I  cannot  go  into  a  rage,  like  a  boy!  But 
the  worm  has  crawled  into  my  heart,  and  is  gnaw- 
ing it  day  and  night.  How  is  this  thing  going  to 
end?    Hitherto  I  have  languished  and  been  agi- 

183 


(t 


FAUST  " 


tated  in  her  absence,  while  in  her  presence  I  have 
instantly  calmed  down.  .  .  .  Now  I  am  uneasy 
in  her  presence — that  is  what  alarms  me.  Oh, 
my  friend,  how  painful  a  thing  it  is  to  be  ashamed 
of  one's  tears,  to  conceal  them!  ....  Only 
youth  is  permitted  to  weep;  tears  become  it 
alone.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  read  over  this  letter ;  it  has  burst  from 
me  like  a  groan.  I  can  add  nothing,  narrate  no- 
thing. .  .  .  Give  me  time:  I  shall  come  to  my- 
self. I  shall  regain  control  of  my  soul,  I  shall 
talk  with  thee  like  a  man,  but  now  I  should  like 
to  lean  my  head  on  thy  breast  and  .... 

O  Mephistopheles !  Even  thou  wilt  not  help 
me !  I  have  intentionally  lingered  over,  I  have  in- 
tentionally irritated  the  ironical  vein  in  myself ;  I 
have  reminded  myself  how  ridiculous  and  hypo- 
critical these  complaints,  these  effusions,  will  ap- 
pear to  me  a  year,  half  a  year  hence.  .  .  .  No, 
Mephistopheles  is  powerless,  and  his  teeth  have 

grown  blunt.  .  .  .  Farewell. 

Thine, 

P.  B. 


184 


"  FAUST  " 

EIGHTH   LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  September  8,  1850. 

My  dear  friend,  Semyon  Nikolaitch  : 

Thou  hast  taken  my  last  letter  too  much  to 
heart.  Thou  knowest  how  much  inclined  I  have 
always  been  to  exaggerate  my  feelings;  I  do  it 
quite  involuntarily:  a  feminine  nature!  That 
will  pass  off,  with  years,  it  is  true;  but  I  must 
admit,  with  a  sigh,  that  up  to  the  present  time, 
I  have  not  corrected  myself.  And,  therefore,  re- 
assure thyself.  I  will  not  deny  the  impression 
which  Vyera  has  made  upon  me;  but,  neverthe- 
less, I  will  say:  there  was  nothing  remarkable  in 
all  that.  It  is  not  in  the  least  necessary  that  thou 
shouldst  come  hither,  as  thou  writest  that  thou 
art  intending  to  do.  To  gallop  more  than  a 
thousand  miles,  God  knows  for  what— why,  that 
would  be  madness!  But  I  am  very  grateful  to 
thee  for  this  new  proof  of  thy  friendship,  and, 
believe  me,  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Thy  journey 
hither  is  ill-judged  also  because  I  myself  intend 
soon  to  set  off  for  Petersburg.  Seated  on  thy 
divan,  I  will  relate  to  thee  many  things ;  but  now, 
really,  I  do  not  feel  like  it:  the  first  thing  you 
know,  I  shall  get  to  chattering  too  much,  and  be- 
come entangled  again.    I  will  write  to  thee  again 

185 


"  FAUST  " 

before  my  departure.  So  then,  farewell  until  we 
meet  shortly.  May  health  be  thine,  and  cheerful- 
ness, and  do  not  worry  too  much  over  the  fate  of 
— thine  sincerely, 

P.  B. 

NINTH   LETTER 

From  the  same  to  the  same 

Village  of  M  .  .  .  .  oe,  March  10,  1853. 
I  ha^t:  not  answered  thy  letter  for  a  long  time; 
I  have  been  thinking  of  thee  all  these  days.  I 
have  felt  that  thou  wert  prompted  not  by  idle 
curiosity,  but  by  genuine  friendly  sympathy ;  but 
still  I  have  hesitated:  whether  I  ought  to  fol- 
low thy  advice,  whether  I  ought  to  comply  with 
thy  wish.  At  last  I  have  reached  a  decision;  I 
will  tell  thee  all.  Whether  my  confession  will 
relieve  me,  as  thou  assumest,  I  do  not  know;  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  remain  culpable  even 
if  ...  .  alas !  still  more  culpable  toward  that  un- 
forgettable, charming  spirit,  if  I  did  not  confide 
our  sad  secret  to  the  only  heart  which  I  still 
prize.  Thou  alone,  possibly,  on  earth  dost  re- 
member Vyera,  and  that  thou  shouldst  judge  of 
her  light-mindedly  and  falsely,  i^  what  I  cannot 
permit.  Then  know  all !  Alas !  it  can  all  be  im- 
parted in  two  words;  that  which  existed  between 
us  flashed  for  a  moment,  like  the  lightning,  and, 

186 


"  FAUST  " 

like  the  lightning,  carried  death  and  destruction 
with  it.  .  .  . 

Since  her  death,  since  I  settled  down  in  this 
remote  nook,  which  I  shall  never  leave  again  to 
the  end  of  my  days,  more  than  two  years  have 
passed,  and  everything  is  as  clear  in  my  memory, 
my  wounds  are  still  as  fresh,  my  grief  is  as  bitter 
as  ever.  .  .  . 

I  will  not  complain.  Complaints,  by  irritating, 
alleviate  sorrow,  but  not  mine.  I  will  begin  my 
narration. 

Dost  thou  remember  my  last  letter — that  let- 
ter in  which  I  undertook  to  dissipate  thy  fears 
and  dissuade  thee  from  leaving  Petersburg? 
Thou  wert  suspicious  of  its  constrained  ease,  thou 
hadst  no  faith  that  we  should  soon  see  each  other : 
thou  wert  right.  On  the  eve  of  the  day  when  I 
wrote  to  thee,  I  had  learned  that  I  was  beloved. 

As  I  trace  these  words  I  discover  how  diffi- 
cult it  will  be  for  me  to  pursue  my  narration  to 
the  end.  The  importunate  thought  of  her  death 
will  torture  me  with  redoubled  force,  these  mem- 
ories will  sear  me.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  try  to  control 
myself,  and  I  will  either  discard  my  pen,  or  I 
will  not  utter  a  superfluous  word. 

This  is  how  I  learned  that  Vyera  loved  me. 
First  of  all,  I  must  tell  thee  (and  thou  wilt  be- 
lieve me) ,  that  up  to  that  day  I  positively  had  not 
had  a  suspicion.  She  had,  it  is  true,  begun  to  be 
pensive  at  times,  which  had  never  been  the  case 

187 


"  FAUST  " 

with  her  previously;  but  I  did  not  understand 
why  this  happened  to  her.  At  last,  one  day,  the 
seventh  of  September,— a  memorable  day  for  me, 
— this  is  what  occurred.  Thou  knowest  how  I 
loved  her,  how  I  was  suffering.  I  wandered  like 
a  ghost,  I  could  find  no  place  of  rest.  I  tried 
to  remain  at  home,  but  could  not  endure  it,  and 
went  to  her.  I  found  her  alone  in  her  boudoir. 
PriimkofF  was  not  at  home:  he  had  gone  off 
hunting.  When  I  entered  Vyera's  room,  she 
looked  intently  at  me,  and  did  not  respond  to  my 
greeting.  She  was  sitting  by  the  window ;  on  her 
lap  lay  a  book:  it  was  my  "  Faust."  Her  face 
expressed  weariness.  She  requested  me  to  read 
aloud  the  scene  between  Faust  and  Gretchen, 
where  she  asks  him  whether  he  believes  in  God. 
I  took  the  book  and  began  to  read.  With  her 
head  leaning  against  the  back  of  her  chair, 
and  her  hands  clasped  on  her  breast,  she  contin- 
ued to  gaze  at  me  in  the  same  intent  manner  as 
before. 

I  do  not  know  why  my  heart  suddenly  began 
to  beat  violently. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  me?  "—she  said  in  a 
lingering  voice. 

"  What?  " — I  ejaculated  in  confusion. 

"  Yes;  what  have  you  done  to  me? " — she  re- 
peated. 

"Do  you  mean  to   ask,"— I   began:— "why 
have  I  persuaded  you  to  read  such  books?  " 

188 


"  FAUST  " 

She  rose  in  silence,  and  left  the  room.    I  stared 
after  her. 

On  the  threshold  she  halted  and  turned  toward 
me. 

"I  love  you,"— said  she:— "that  is  what  you 
have  done  to  me." 

The  blood  flew  to  my  head.  .  .  . 

"  I  love  you,  I  am  in  love  with  you,"— repeated 
Vyera. 

She  went  away,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 
I  will  not  describe  to  thee  what  went  on  in  me 
then.  I  remember  that  I  went  out  into  the  gar- 
den, made  my  way  into  its  thickets,  and  leaned 
against  a  tree.  How  long  I  stood  there  I  know 
not.  It  was  as  though  I  had  swooned ;  the  feeling 
of  bliss  surged  across  my  heart  in  a  billow,  from 
time  to  time.  .  .  .  No,  I  will  not  talk  about  that. 
PriimkofF's  voice  aroused  me  from  my  stupor; 
they  had  sent  to  tell  him  that  I  had  arrived.  He 
had  returned  from  the  chase,  and  had  hunted  "me 
up.  He  was  surprised  at  finding  me  in  the  gar- 
den alone,  without  a  hat,  and  he  led  me  to  the 
house.  "  My  wife  is  in  the  drawing-room," — 
he  said: — "  let  us  go  to  her."  Thou  canst  con- 
jecture with  what  emotions  I  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  the  drawing-room.  Vyera  was  sitting  in 
one  corner,  at  her  embroidery-frame.  I  darted 
a  covert  glance  at  her,  and  for  a  long  time  there- 
after, did  not  raise  my  eyes.  To  my  amazement, 
•she  appeared  to  be  calm;  there  was  no  tremor  per- 

189 


(( 


FAUST  " 


ceptible  in  what  she  said,  in  the  sound  of  her 
voice.  At  last,  I  brought  myself  to  look  at  her. 
Our  glances  met.  .  .  .  She  blushed  almost  im- 
perceptibly, and  bent  over  her  canvas.  I  began 
to  watch  her.  She  seemed  perplexed,  somehow; 
a  cheerless  smile  now  and  then  flitted  across  her 
lips. 

Priimkoff  left  the  room.  She  suddenly  raised 
her  head  and  asked  me  in  quite  a  loud  tone : 

"  What  dost  thou  intend  to  do  now?  " 

I  was  disconcerted,  and  hastily,  in  a  dull  voice, 
I  replied  that  I  intended  to  fulfil  the  duty  of  an 
honourable  man— to  go  away,  "  because,"— I 
added, — "  I  love  you,  Vyera  Nikolaevna,  as  you 
have,  probably,  long  since  perceived." 

"  I  must  have  a  talk  with  you,"— said  she:— 
"  come  to-morrow  evening,  after  tea,  to  our  little 
house  .  .  .  you  know,  where  you  read  '  Faust.'  " 

She  said  this  so  distinctly  that  even  now  I  can- 
not understand  how  Priimkoff,  who  entered  the 
room  at  that  moment,  failed  to  hear  anything. 
Slowly,  with  painful  slowness  did  that  day  pass. 
Vyera  gazed  about  her  from  time  to  time,  with 
an  expression  as  though  she  were  asking  herself: 
"  Was  not  she  dreaming?  "  And,  at  the  same 
time,  decision  was  written  on  her  countenance. 
While  I  ....  I  could  not  recover  my  compo- 
sure. Vyera  loves  me!  These  words  gyrated 
incessantly  in  my  mind;  but  I  did  not  understand 
them,— I  understood  neither  myself  nor  her.     I 

190 


"  FAUST  " 

did  not  believe  in  such  unexpected,  such  soul-dis- 
turbing happiness;  with  an  effort  I  recalled  the 
past,  and  I  also  looked  and  talked  as  in  a 
dream.  .  .  . 

After  tea,  when  I  had  already  begun  to  medi- 
tate how  I  might  slip  unperceived  out  of  the 
house,  she  herself  suddenly  announced  that  she 
wished  to  take  a  stroll,  and  proposed  to  me  that 
I  should  accompany  her.  I  dared  not  begin  the 
conversation,  I  could  barely  draw  my  breath,  I 
v/aited  for  her  first  word,  I  waited  for  an  ex- 
planation ;  but  she  maintained  silence.  In  silence 
we  reached  the  little  Chinese  house,  in  silence  we 
entered  it,  and  there — to  this  day  I  do  not  know, 
I  cannot  comprehend  how  it  came  about — but  we 
suddenly  found  ourselves  in  each  other's  arms. 
Some  invisible  force  dashed  me  to  her,  and  her  to 
me.  By  the  dying  light  of  day,  her  face,  with 
its  curls  tossed  back,  was  illuminated  for  a  mo- 
ment by  a  smile  of  self-f orgetfulness  and  tender- 
ness, and  our  lips  melted  together  in  a  kiss.  .  .  . 

This  kiss  was  the  first  and  the  last. 

Vyera  suddenly  tore  herself  from  my  arms, 
and,  with  an  expression  of  horror  in  her  widely- 
opened  eyes,  staggered  back.  .  .  . 

"  Look  round," — she  said  to  me  in  a  quivering 
voice:— "do  you  see  nothing?" 

I  wheeled  swiftly  round. 

"  No,  nothing.    But  do  you  see  any  one?  " 

"  I  don't  now,  but  I  did." 

791 


it 


FAUST  " 


She  was  breathing  deeply  and  slowly. 

"Whom?    What?" 

"  My  mother,"— she  said  slowly,  trembling  all 
over. 

I  also  shivered,  as  though  a  chill  had  seized  me. 
I  suddenly  felt  alarmed,  like  a  criminal.  And 
was  not  I  a  criminal  at  that  moment? 

"Enough!"— I  began.— "What  ails  you? 
Tell  me  rather  .  .  .  ." 

"No,  for  God's  sake,  no!"— she  interrupted, 
clutching  her  head.—"  This  is  madness.  ...  I 
shall  go  out  of  my  mind.  .  .  .  This  is  not  to  be 
trifled  with— this  is  death.  .  .  .  Farewell.  .  .  ." 

I  stretched  out  my  arms  toward  her. 

"  Stay  one  moment,  for  God's  sake,"— I  cried 
in  an  involuntary  transport.  I  did  not  know 
what  to  say,  and  could  hardly  stand  on  my  feet. — 
"  For  God's  sake  ....  why,  this  is  cruel.  .  .  ." 

She  glanced  at  me. 

"  To-morrow,  to-morrow  evening,"— she  said: 
— "  not  to-day,  I  beg  of  you.  .  .  .  Go  away  to-day 
....  Come  to-morrow  evening  to  the  wicket- 
gate  in  the  garden,  near  the  lake.  I  shall  be  there, 
I  will  come.  ...  I  swear  to  thee  that  I  will 
come,"— she  added,  with  an  effort,  and  her  eyes 
flashed. — "  No  matter  who  may  seek  to  stop  me, 
I  swear  it!  I  will  tell  thee  all,  only  let  me  go 
to-day." 

And  before  I  could  utter  a  word,  she  vanished. 

192 


*'  FAUST  " 

Shaken  to  the  very  foundations,  I  remained 
rooted  to  the  spot.  My  head  was  reehng.  A  feel- 
ing of  anguish  crept  through  the  mad  joy  which 
filled  my  being.  I  glanced  about  me.  The  cham- 
ber in  which  I  was  standing,  with  its  low  vault 
and  dark  walls,  seemed  horrible  to  me. 

I  went  out  and  betook  myself  with  hasty  steps 
to  the  house.  Vyera  was  waiting  for  me  on  the 
terrace;  she  went  into  the  house  as  soon  as  I  ap- 
proached, and  immediately  retired  to  her  bed- 
room. 

I  went  away. 

How  I  spent  that  night  and  the  following  day 
until  the  evening,  I  cannot  describe.  I  remem- 
ber only  that  I  lay  prone,  with  my  face  hidden 
in  my  hands,  recalling  her  smile  which  had  pre- 
ceded the  kiss,  and  whispering:  "  Here  she  is,  at 

IclSL*     •     •     • 

I  recalled  also  Madame  ifiltzofF's  words,  which 
Vyera  had  repeated  to  me.  She  had  said  to  her 
one  day:  "  Thou  art  like  ice:  until  thou  shalt  melt, 
thou  art  strong  as  a  rock,  but  when  thou  meltest, 
there  will  not  remain  a  trace  of  thee." 

And  here  is  another  thing  which  recurred  to 
my  memory :  Vyera  and  I  had,  somehow,  got  into 
a  discussion  as  to  what  are  knowledge  and  talent. 

"  I  know  only  one  thing," — she  said: — "  how  to 
hold  my  peace  until  the  last  minute." 

I  had  understood  nothing  at  the  time. 

193 


"  FAUST  " 

"  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  her  fright?  "—I 
asked  myself.  ..."  Did  she  really  see  Madame 
filtzoiF?  Imagination!  "—I  thought,  and  again 
surrendered  myself  to  the  emotions  of  anticipa- 
tion. 

That  same  day  I  wrote  to  thee — with  what 
thoughts  I  shudder  to  recall— that  artful  letter. 

In  the  evening,  before  the  sun  had  set,  I  was 
standing  at  a  distance  of  fifty  paces  from  the 
garden  gate,  in  a  tall,  thick  mass  of  vines,  on  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  I  had  come  from  home  on  foot. 
I  confess  it,  to  my  shame :  terror,  the  most  pusil- 
lanimous terror  filled  my  breast,  I  kept  trembling 
incessantly  ....  but  I  felt  no  remorse.  Con- 
cealing myself  among  the  branches,  I  stared  fix- 
edly at  the  gate.  It  did  not  open.  The  sun  set, 
darkness  descended:  the  stars  had  already  come 
out,  and  the  sky  had  grown  black.  No  one  ap- 
peared. Fever  seized  upon  me.  Night  came. 
I  could  endure  it  no  longer,  and  cautiously  emerg- 
ing from  the  vines,  I  crept  up  to  the  gate.  Every- 
thing was  quiet  in  the  garden.  I  called  Vyera 
in  a  whisper,  I  called  a  second  time,  a  third.  .  .  . 
No  voice  responded.  Another  half  hour,  an  hour 
elapsed ;  it  had  grown  perfectly  dark.  Anticipa- 
tion had  exhausted  me;  I  pulled  the  gate  toward 
me,  opened  it  at  one  movement  and  directed  my 
way  on  tiptoe,  like  a  thief,  toward  the  house.  I 
halted  in  the  shadow  of  the  lindens. 

Almost  all  the  windows  in  the  house  were 

194 


<( 


FAUST  " 


lighted:  people  were  moving  to  and  fro  in  the 
rooms.  This  astonished  me :  my  watch,  so  far  as 
I  could  make  out  by  the  dim  light  of  the  stars, 
indicated  half -past  eleven.  Suddenly  a  rumbling 
resounded  on  the  other  side  of  the  house :  an 
equipage  had  driven  into  the  courtyard. 

"  Evidently,  there  are  visitors,"— I  thought. 
Abandoning  all  hope  of  seeing  Vyera,  I  made  my 
way  out  of  the  garden,  and  strode  homeward  with 
hasty  steps.  It  was  a  dark  September  night, 
warm  but  starless.  A  feeling  not  so  much  of  vex- 
ation as  of  grief,  which  was  on  the  point  of  tak- 
ing possession  of  me,  was  dissipated  to  a  certain 
degree,  and  I  arrived  at  my  own  house  somewhat 
fatigued  from  mj^  brisk  walk,  but  soothed  by  the 
tranquillity  of  the  night,  happy  and  almost  merry. 
I  entered  my  bedroom,  dismissed  Timofyei,  threw 
myself  on  the  bed  without  undressing,  and 
plunged  into  reverie. 

At  first  my  musings  were  cheerful ;  but  I  speed- 
ily noticed  a  strange  change  in  myself.  I  began 
to  feel  a  sort  of  mysterious,  gnawing  grief,  a  sort 
of  profound,  inward  uneasiness.  I  could  not  un- 
derstand whence  it  proceeded;  but  I  became 
alarmed,  and  oppressed,  as  though  an  impending 
misfortune  were  menacing  me,  as  though  some 
one  dear  to  me  were  suffering  at  that  moment, 
and  were  appealing  to  me  for  help.  On  the  table 
a  wax  taper  was  burning  with  a  small,  motionless 
flame,  the  pendulum  of  the  clock  was  ticking 

195 


"  FAUST  " 

heavily  and  regularly.  I  leaned  my  head  on  my 
hand,  and  sat  to  staring  into  the  empty,  semi- 
darkness  of  my  solitary  chamber.  I  thought  of 
Vyera,  and  my  soul  ached  within  me :  everything 
in  which  I  had  delighted  appeared  to  me  in  its 
proper  light,  as  a  calamity,  as  ruin  from  which 
there  was  no  escape.  The  feehng  of  anguish  kept 
augmenting  within  me;  I  could  no  longer  lie 
down ;  again  it  suddenly  seemed  to  me  as  though 
some  one  were  calling  me  with  an  appealing  voice. 
....  I  raised  my  head  and  shuddered.  I  was  not 
mistaken:  a  wailing  shriek  swept  from  afar,  and 
clung,  faintly  quivering,  to  the  window-panes. 
I  was  terrified :  I  sprang  from  the  bed,  and  threw 
open  the  window.  A  plainly-audible  groan  burst 
into  the  room,  and  seemed  to  hover  over  me.  It 
seemed  as  though  some  one's  throat  were  being 
cut  at  a  distance,  and  the  unhappy  person  were 
entreating,  in  vain,  for  mercy.  I  did  not  stop, 
at  the  time,  to  consider  whether  it  might  not  be 
an  owl  hooting  in  the  grove,  or  whether  some 
other  creature  had  emitted  that  groan,  but  as  Ma- 
zeppa  answered  Kotchubey,  I  replied  with  a 
shriek  to  that  sound  of  ill-omen. 

"  Vyera,  Vyera!  "—I  cried:—"  is  it  thou  who 
art  calling  me?  "— Timofyei,  sleepy  and  dumb- 
founded, appeared  before  me. 

I  came  to  my  senses,  drank  a  glass  of  water, 
and  went  into  another  room;  but  sleep  did  not 
visit  me.    My  heart  beat  painfully,  although  not 

196 


"  FAUST  " 

frequently.  I  could  no  longer  give  myself  up  to 
dreams,  to  happiness.  I  no  longer  dared  to  be- 
lieve in  it. 

On  the  following  day,  before  dinner,  I  set  off 
to  see  Priimkoff.  He  greeted  me  with  a  care- 
worn face. 

"My  wife  is  ill," — he  began: — "  she  is  in  bed. 
I  have  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  her?  " 

"  I  don't  understand.  Yesterday  evening  she 
started  to  go  into  the  garden,  but  suddenly  came 
back,  beside  herself,  thoroughly  frightened.  Her 
maid  ran  for  me.  I  came,  and  asked  my  wife, 
'  What  ails  thee? '  She  made  no  reply,  and  in- 
stantly took  to  her  bed ;  during  the  night,  delirium 
set  in.  God  knows  what  she  said  in  her  delirium ; 
she  mentioned  you.  The  maid  told  me  an  aston- 
ishing thing:  it  seems  that  Vyerotchka  saw  her 
dead  mother  in  the  garden ;  her  mother  seemed  to 
be  coming  toward  her  with  open  arms." 

Thou  canst  imagine  my  sensations  at  these 
words ! 

"  Of  course,  it  is  nonsense," — pursued  Priim- 
koff:— "  but  I  must  confess  that  remarkable 
things  have  happened  to  my  wife  in  that  line." 

"  And  is  Vyera  Nikolaevna  very  ill,  pray  tell 
mef 

"  Yes,  very;  she  was  very  bad  during  the  night; 
now  she  is  unconscious." 

"  But  what  did  the  doctor  say?  " 

197 


FAUST 


»» 


"  He  said  that  the  malady  had  not  yet  declared 
itself.  .  .  ." 

March  12. 

I  CANNOT  continue  as  I  have  begun,  my  dear 
friend:  it  costs  me  too  much  effort  and  irritates 
my  wounds  too  greatly.  The  malady  declared  it- 
self, to  use  the  doctor's  words,  and  Vyera  died  of 
it.  She  did  not  survive  a  fortnight  after  that  fatal 
day  of  our  momentary  tryst.  I  saw  her  once  more 
before  her  end.  I  possess  no  more  cruel  memory. 
I  had  already  learned  from  the  doctor  that  there 
was  no  hope.  Late  at  night,  when  every  one  in 
the  house  was  in  bed,  I  crept  to  the  door  of  her 
chamber  and  looked  at  her.  Vyera  was  lying  in 
bed,  with  closed  eyes,  emaciated,  tiny,  with  the 
glow  of  fever  on  her  cheeks.  I  stared  at  her  as 
though  I  had  been  petrified.  Suddenly  she 
opened  her  eyes,  fixed  them  on  me,  took  a  closer 
look,  and  stretching  out  her  emaciated  hand — 

' '  What  does  he  want  on  that  holy  spot, 
That  man  .    .    .    that  man  yonder.    .    .    .  ""  ^ 

she  articulated  in  a  voice  so  terrible,  that  I  fled 
at  full  speed.  She  raved  of  "  Faust  "  almost  con- 
tinuously during  her  illness,  and  of  her  mother, 
whom  she  called  now  Martha,  now  Gretchen's 
mother. 

1  "  Was  will  er  an  dem  heiligen  Ort, 
Der  da  ....  der  dort.  .  .  ." 

"  Faust,"  Part  I,  Last  Scene. 

198 


"  FAUST  " 

Vyera  died.  I  was  at  her  funeral.  Since  that 
day  I  have  abandoned  everything,  and  have  set- 
tled down  here  forever. 

Reflect  now  on  what  I  have  told  thee ;  think  of 
her,  of  that  being  who  perished  so  early.  How 
this  came  about,  how  that  incomprehensible  inter- 
}josition  of  the  dead  in  the  aff'airs  of  the  living 
is  to  be  explained,  I  know  not,  and  I  shall  never 
know ;  but  thou  must  agree  with  me  that  it  is  no 
fit  of  capricious  hypochondria,  as  thou  expressest 
it,  which  has  made  me  withdraw  from  society. 
All  this  time  I  have  thought  so  much  about  that 
unhappy  woman  (I  came  near  saying,  "young 
girl "),  about  her  origin,  the  mysterious  play  of 
Fate  which  we,  blind  that  we  are,  designate  as 
blind  chance.  Who  knows  how  much  seed  is  left 
by  each  person  who  lives  on  the  earth,  which  is 
destined  to  spring  up  only  after  his  death  ?  Who 
can  say  to  what  mysterious  end  the  fate  of  a  man 
is  bound  up  with  the  fate  of  his  children,  his  pos- 
terity, and  how  his  aspirations  will  be  reflected  in 
them,  his  mistakes  visited  on  them  ?  We  must  all 
submit  and  bow  our  heads  before  the  Unknow- 
able. 

Yes,  Vyera  perished,  and  I  have  remained 
whole.  I  remember,  .when  I  was  still  a  child,  there 
was  in  our  house  a  beautiful  vase  of  transparent 
alabaster.  Not  a  fleck  sullied  its  virgin  whiteness. 
One  day,  when  I  was  left  alone,  I  began  to  rock 
the  pedestal  on  which  it  stood  ....  The  vase 

199 


"  FAUST  " 

suddenly  fell  to  the  floor,  and  was  shattered  to 
atoms.  I  nearly  swooned  with  fright,  and  stood 
motionless  before  the  fragments.  My  father  en- 
tered the  room,  saw  me,  and  said:  "  Just  see  what 
thou  hast  done !  We  shall  never  have  our  beautiful 
vase  again;  there  is  no  way  to  mend  it  now."  I 
burst  out  sobbing.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
committed  a  crime. 

I  have  become  a  man — and  have  heedlessly 
shattered  a  vessel  which  was  a  thousand  times 
more  precious.  .  .  . 

In  vain  do  I  tell  myself  that  I  could  not  have 
anticipated  this  instantaneous  catastrophe,  that  it 
startled  even  me  by  its  unexpectedness,  that  I  had 
no  suspicion  as  to  the  sort  of  woman  Vyera  was. 
She  really  did  know  how  to  hold  her  peace  to  the 
last  minute.  I  ought  to  have  fled  as  soon  as  I  felt 
that  I  loved  her,— loved  a  married  woman;  but  I 
remained, — and  have  shattered  in  fragments  a 
very  beautiful  creature,  and  with  dumb  despair 
I  now  gaze  upon  the  work  of  my  hands. 

Yes;  Madame  EltzofF  jealously  guarded  her 
daughter.  She  guarded  her  to  the  end,  and  at  her 
first  unwary  step,  she  bore  her  off*  with  her  into 
the  tomb. 

It  is  time  for  me  to  make  an  end.  ...  I  have 
not  told  thee  the  hundredth  part  of  what  I  should : 
but  this  has  been  quite  enough  for  me.  Let  every- 
thing which  has  flashed  up  in  my  soul  sink  once 
more  into  its  depths.  ...  In  ending,  I  will  tell 

200 


"  FAUST  " 

thee:  I  have  brought  one  conviction  out  of  the 
experiences  of  the  recent  years;  hfe  is  not  even 
enjoyment,  ....  life  is  a  heavy  toil.  Renun- 
ciation, constant  renunciation, — that  is  its  secret 
meaning,  its  solution;  not  the  fulfilment  of  cher- 
ished ideas  and  dreams,  no  matter  how  lofty  they 
may  be, — but  the  fulfilment  of  duty, — that  is 
what  man  must  take  heed  to;  not  unless  he  im- 
poses upon  himself  chains,  the  iron  chains  of  duty, 
can  he  attain  to  the  end  of  his  course  without 
falling;  but  in  youth  we  think:  "  The  freer  the 
better;  the  further  one  can  go."  It  is  permissible 
for  youth  to  think  thus;  but  it  is  disgraceful  to 
console  one's  self  with  an  illusion,  when  the  stern 
face  of  the  truth  has  at  last  looked  thee  full  in  the 
eye. 

Farewell!  Formerly  I  would  have  added:  "  Be 
happy."  Now  I  say  to  thee:  Endeavour  to  live, 
it  is  not  as  easy  as  it  seems.  Remember  me,  not  in 
hours  of  sadness,  but  in  hours  of  thoughtfulness, 
and  preserve  in  thy  soul  the  image  of  Vyera  in 
all  its  unsuUied  purity.  .  .  .  Once  more,  fare- 
well I  Thine, 

P.  B. 


201 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  THE 
FOREST  BELT 

(1857) 


AN  EXCURSION  TO  THE 
FOREST  BELT^ 

THE    FIRST   DAY 

THE  aspect  of  the  huge  pine  woods  which  em- 
brace the  whole  horizon,  the  aspect  of  the 
"  Forest  Belt,"  reminds  one  of  the  aspect  of  the 
sea.  And  the  impressions  evoked  by  both  are  the 
same :  the  same  primeval,  untouched  strength  lies 
in  vast  and  regal  expanse  before  the  spectator. 
From  the  bosom  of  the  eternal  forests,  from  the 
deathless  lap  of  the  waters  the  selfsame  voice 
arises:  "  I  care  nothing  for  thee,"— Nature  says 
to  man:—"  I  reign,  but  do  thou  bestir  thyself  as 
to  the  means  of  escaping  death."  But  the  forest 
is  more  monotonous  and  melancholy  than  the  sea, 
especially  a  pine  forest,  which  is  forever  the  same, 
and  almost  noiseless.  The  sea  menaces  and  ca- 
resses, it  has  a  shifting  play  of  all  hues,  it  speaks 
with  all  voices ;  it  reflects  the  sky,  which  also  ex- 
hales eternity,  but  an  eternity  which  does  not  seem 
alien  to  us.  .  .  .  The  unchanging,  gloomy  pine 
forest  maintains  a  surly  silence,  or  roars  dully,— 
and  at  the  sight  of  it  the  consciousness  of  our  in« 

1  A  district  in  southwest  Russia— Translator. 

205 


AN  EXCURSION 

significance  penetrates  still  more  deeply  and  irre- 
sistibly into  the  heart  of  man. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  man,  the  creature  of  a  single 
day,  yesterday  born  and  to-day  doomed  to  death, 
— it  is  difficult  for  him  to  endure  the  cold  gaze  of 
the  eternal  Isis  riveted  impassibly  upon  him;  not 
his  bold  hopes  and  dreams  alone  quiet  down  and 
become  extinguished  within  him,  encompassed  by 
the  icy  breath  of  the  elements;  no — his  whole  soul 
chirps  feebly  and  expires;  and  he  feels  that  the 
last  of  his  fellows  may  vanish  from  the  face  of 
the  earth — and  not  a  single  needle  on  those 
branches  will  quiver ;  he  feels  his  isolation,  his  im- 
potence, his  fortuitousness  and  with  hurried, 
secret  terror  he  turns  his  attention  to  the  petty 
cares  and  toils  of  life;  he  is  more  at  his  ease  in 
that  world,  created  by  himself;  there  he  is  at  home, 
there  he  still  dares  to  believe  in  his  own  impor- 
tance, in  his  own  power. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  which  occurred  to  me 
several  years  ago,  when,  as  I  stood  on  the  porch 
of  a  tiny  posting-station,  erected  on  the  bank  of 
the  marshy  little  Reseta,  I  beheld  the  Forest  Belt 
for  the  first  time.  The  blue  masses  of  the  ever- 
green forest  retreated  in  front  of  me  in  long, 
serried  ranks  of  terraces;  here  and  there,  small 
birch  groves  glimmered  only  as  green  spots;  the 
entire  field  of  vision  was  encompassed  by  the  pine 
forest;  no  church  gleamed  white,  no  fields  shone 
light  in  any  direction — there  was  nothing  but 

206 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

trees,  trees,  nothing  but  jagged  crests;  and  a  thin, 
dull  mist,  the  eternal  mist  of  the  Forest  Belt,  hung 
high  above  them.    It  was  not  indolence,  that  im- 
passivity of  hfe,  no— it  was  absence  of  life,  some- 
thing   dead,    though   majestic,    which   breathed 
forth  upon  me  from  all  points  of  the  horizon.    I 
remember  that  huge,  white  clouds  sailed  past, 
softly,  and  high  in  air,  and  the  hot  sunmier  day 
lay  motionless  and  silent  on  the  earth.    The  red- 
dish water  of  the  little  stream  slipped  by  without 
a  plash  between  the  dense  growth  of  reeds ;  at  its 
bottom  round  hillocks  of  prickly  moss  were  dimly 
visible,  and  the  banks  now  disappeared  in  the 
swampy  ooze,  now  shone  forth  with  the  sharp 
whiteness  of  fine,  friable  sand.    Past  the  posting- 
station  itself  ran  the  well-beaten  county  highway. 
On  this  highway,  directly  opposite  the  porch, 
stood  a  peasant-cart,  laden  with  boxes  and  chests. 
Its  owner,  a  gaunt  petty  burgher,  with  a  hawk's- 
bill  nose  and  tiny,  mouse-like  eyes,  round-shoul- 
dered and  lame,  was  harnessing  to  it  his  wretched 
nag,  which  was  lame,  like  himself;  he  was  a  gin- 
gerbread pedlar,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  Ka- 
ratchyoff  fair.     Several  persons  suddenly  made 
their  appearance  on  the  threshold;  others  strag- 
gled after  them  ....  at  last,  a  whole  throng 
poured  forth;  all  of  them  had  staves  in  their 
hands,  and  wallets  on  their  backs.     From  their 
walk,  which  was  weary  and  shambling,  from  their 
sunburned  faces,  it  was  evident  that  they  came 

207 


AN  EXCURSION 

from  afar :  they  were  day-labourers,  diggers,  who 
were  returning  from  a  trip  to  earn  money  by  har- 
vest labour.  An  old  man  of  seventy,  with  per- 
fectly white  hair,  seemed  to  be  acting  as  their 
leader;  he  turned  round  from  time  to  time,  and 
spurred  on  the  laggards  with  a  tranquil  voice. 
"  Come,  come,  come,  my  lads,"— he  said,— 
*'  co-ome  on."  They  all  advanced  in  silence,  in  a 
sort  of  impressive  tranquillity.  Only  one,  a  man 
of  low  stature,  and  with  an  angry  aspect,  in  a 
sheep-pelt  coat  open  on  the  breast,  and  a  sheep- 
skin cap,  pulled  down  over  his  very  eyes,  suddenly 
asked  the  gingerbread  pedlar,  as  he  came  on  a 

level  with  him : 

"  How  much  is  gingerbread,  fool?  " 

"  That  depends  on  the  sort  of  gingerbread, 

my  dear  man,"— replied  the  astounded  dealer  in 

a  shrill  voice.—"  I  have  some  for  a  kopek— while 

other  sorts  cost  two  kopeks.     But  hast  thou  two 

kopeks  in  thy  purse?  " 

"  I  guess  it  ferments  in  the  belly,"— retorted 

the  man  in  the  sheepskin  coat,  and  strode  away 

from  the  cart. 

"Hurry  up,  my  lads,  hurry  up!"— the  old 

man's  voice  made  itself  heard :—"  It  is  a  long  way 

to  our  halting-place  for  the  night." 

"  A  rough  lot,"— said  the  gingerbread  pedlar, 

darting  a  sidelong  glance  at  me,  as  soon  as  the 

whole  throng  had  straggled  past  him;  "is  that 

the  food  for  them?  " 

208 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

And  harnessing  his  nag  with  all  speed,  he  drove 
down  to  the  river,  on  which  a  small  ferry-boat  of 
planks  was  visible.  A  peasant  in  a  white  felt 
"  shlyk  "  (the  tall,  pointed  cap  usual  in  the  Forest 
Belt) ,  emerged  from  a  low  earth-hut  to  meet  him, 
and  ferried  him  over  to  the  opposite  shore.  The 
cart  crawled  along  the  rutted  and  gullied  road, 
now  and  then  emitting  a  squeak  from  one  of  the 
wheels. 

I  fed  my  horses  and  crossed  the  stream  also. 
After  crawling  along  for  about  two  versts  ^ 
through  a  swampy  meadow,  I  drove,  at  last,  on 
to  a  narrow  dam  at  a  clearing  in  the  forest.  My 
tarantas  jolted  unevenly  over  the  round  logs;  I 
alighted  and  went  on  foot.  The  horses  advanced 
at  an  energetic  pace,  snorting  and  tossing  their 
heads  to  rid  themselves  of  the  gnats  and  small 
flies.  The  Forest  Belt  had  received  us  into  its 
bosom.  At  its  border,  nearest  to  the  meadow, 
grew  birches,  aspens,  lindens,  maples,  and  oaks; 
then  these  began  to  occur  more  rarely,  the  thick 
fir  woods  moved  up  in  a  dense  wall ;  further  away 
the  bare  trunks  of  a  pine  wood  shone  red,  and 
then  again  a  mixed  forest  stretched  out,  over- 
grown below  with  hazel-bushes,  bird-cherry, 
mountain-ash,  and  large,  juicy  grass.  The  sun's 
rays  briUiantly  illuminated  the  crests  of  the  trees, 
and,  sifting  over  the  branches,  only  here  and  there 
reached  the  ground  in  pale  streaks  and  patches. 

^  A  verst  is  two-thirds  of  a  mile.  —Translator. 

209 


AN  EXCURSION 

Hardly  any  birds  were  to  be  heard — they  are  not 
fond  of  the  great  forests;  only  the  mournful, 
thrice-repeated  cry  of  a  hoopoe,  and  the  angry 
scream  of  a  nut-bird,  or  a  jay  rang  out  from  time 
to  time ;  a  reticent,  always  solitary  rook  flew  across 
the  clearing,  the  golden-blue  of  its  beautiful  fea- 
thers gleaming  brightly.  Sometimes  the  trees 
thinned  out,  stood  further  apart,  there  was  more 
light  ahead,  the  tarantas  came  out  on  a  clear, 
sandy  glade;  sparse  rye  grew  thereon  in  beds, 
noiselessly  waving  its  pale  little  ears ;  on  one  side 
a  small,  ancient  chapel  stood  out  darkly  with  its 
sagging  cross  above  a  well;  an  invisible  brook 
babbled  peaceably,  with  varying  and  resonant 
sounds,  as  though  it  were  flowing  into  an  empty 
bottle;  and  then,  suddenly,  the  road  was  barred 
by  a  recently-fallen  birch-tree,  and  the  forest 
stood  round  about,  so  aged,  so  lofty,  so  dreamy, 
that  even  the  air  seemed  stifling.  In  places  the 
clearing  was  all  inundated  with  water;  on  both 
sides  extended  a  forest  morass,  all  green  and  dark, 
all  covered  with  reeds  and  a  growth  of  young  al- 
der-bushes; ducks  kept  flying  upward  in  pairs — 
and  strange  it  was  to  see  these  water-fowl  flitting 
swiftly  between  the  pines. — "  Ga,  ga,  ga,  ga,"  a 
prolonged  cry  suddenly  arose;  it  was  a  shepherd 
driving  his  flock  through  the  smaller  growth  of 
trees;  a  dark-brown  cow  with  short,  sharp  horns 
butted  her  way  noisily  through  the  bushes,  with 
her  big,  dark  eyes  riveted  on  the  hound  which  was 

210 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

running  on  in  front  of  me ;  a  gentle  breeze  wafted 
to  me  the  delicate  yet  strong  odour  of  burnt  wood ; 
a  tiny  wreath  of  white  smoke  crawled  up  and 
down  far  away  in  circular  streams  against  the 
pale-blue  forest  air;  evidently,  some  peasant  fur- 
nished charcoal  to  the  glass-works  or  a  factory. 
The  further  we  advanced  the  more  dull  and  quiet 
did  it  grow  around  us.  It  is  always  silent  in  a 
pine  forest,  only  far  away,  high  overhead,  a  sort 
of  long  murmur  and  suppressed  roar  passes 
through  the  branches.  .  .  .  One  drives  on  and  on, 
that  everlasting  murmur  of  the  forest  never 
ceases,  and  his  heart  gradually  begins  to  ache,  and 
he  wants  to  get  out  as  speedily  as  possible,  into  a 
spacious  place,  into  the  light;  he  wants  to  inhale 
with  full  lungs— and  that  fragrant  dampness  and 
rotting  oppress  his  breast.  .  .  . 

We  drove  for  fifteen  versts  at  a  foot-pace,  now 
and  then  breaking  into  a  trot.  I  wanted  to  reach 
the  village  of  Svyatoe,  which  lay  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  forest,  by  daylight.  Twice  we  encount- 
ered peasants  with  long  logs,  or  linden-bark, 
which  they  had  stripped  from  the  trees,  in  their 
carts. 

"  Is  it  far  to  Svyatoe?  "—I  inquired  of  one  of 
them. 

"  No,  not  far." 

"How  far?" 

"  Why,  it  must  be  about  three  versts." 

An  hour  and  a  half  passed.     We  were  still 

211 


AN  EXCURSION 

driving  on  and  on.  Now  again  a  loaded  cart 
creaked.    A  peasant  was  walking  beside  it. 

"  How  much  further  is  it  to  Svyatoe,  brother?  " 

"  What? " 

"  How  far  it  is  to  Svyatoe?  " 

"  Eight  versts." 

The  sun  had  already  set  when,  at  last,  I 
emerged  from  the  forest  and  beheld  before  me  a 
small  village.  About  twenty  homesteads  clung 
closely  around  an  ancient  church,  with  a  single, 
green  dome,  and  tiny  windows,  which  gleamed 
crimson  in  the  evening  glow.  It  was  Svyatoe. 
I  drove  into  the  enclosure.^  The  herd  on  its  home- 
ward way  overtook  my  tarantas,  and  ran  past, 
lowing,  grunting,  and  bleating.  The  young  girls 
and  care-worn  housewives  welcomed  their  beasts ; 
tow-headed  little  urchins  chased  the  unruly  suck- 
ing pigs  with  merry  shouts;  the  dust  whirled 
along  the  streets,  in  light  clouds,  and  turned  crim- 
son as  it  rose  higher  in  the  air. 

I  stopped  at  the  house  of  the  Elder,  a  crafty 
and  intelligent  "  forest-dweller,"  one  of  those 
concerning  whom  it  is  said  that  they  can  see 
what  is  going  on  two  yards  under  the  ground. 
Early  on  the  following  day,  I  set  oiF,  in  a  light 
cart,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  pot-bellied  horses  be- 
longing to  the  peasants,  with  the  Elder's  son,  and 
another  young  peasant,  named  Egor,  on  a  hunt 

^  Russian  villages  are  enclosed  with  a  hedge,  a  fence, 
or  wattled  branches.— Translator. 

212  i 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

for  moor-cock  and  hazel-hens.  The  forest  stood 
in  a  dense-blue  ring  along  the  entire  rim  of  the 
sky — the  cultivated  fields  around  Svyatoe  were 
reckoned  at  two  hundred  desyatinas,^  no  more; 
but  we  were  obliged  to  drive  for  seven  versts 
to  reach  the  good  places.  The  Elder's  son  was 
named  Kondrat.  He  was  a  chestnut-haired,  red- 
cheeked  young  lad,  with  a  kindly  and  pacific  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  obliging  and  loquacious. 
He  drove  the  horses.  Egor  sat  beside  me.  I 
wish  to  say  a  couple  of  words  concerning  him. 

He  was  considered  the  best  hunter  in  the  entire 
county.  He  had  traversed  all  the  localities  for 
fifty  versts  round  about,  in  their  entire  length 
and  breadth.  He  rarely  fired  at  a  bird,  because 
of  scarcity  of  powder  and  shot ;  but  it  was  enough 
for  him  that  he  had  lured  up  a  hazel-hen,  and  had 
noted  the  crest  of  a  wood-snipe.  Egor  bore  the 
reputation  of  being  an  upright  man  and  a  "  close- 
mouthed  fellow."  He  was  not  fond  of  talking, 
and  never  exaggerated  the  number  of  the  game 
he  had  found — a  rare  trait  in  a  hunter.  He  was 
of  medium  height,  and  gaunt;  and  had  a  pale, 
elongated  face  and  large,  honest  eyes.  All  his 
features,  especially  his  lips,  were  regular,  and 
were  permanently  impassive ;  they  breathed  forth 
imperturbable  composure.  He  smiled  slightly, 
and  inwardly,  as  it  were,  when  he  uttered  his 
words,  and  that  quiet  smile  was  very  charming. 

1 A  desyatina  is  equal  to  2.70  acres,  — Translator. 

213 


AN  EXCURSION 

He  did  not  drink  liquor,  and  worked  industri- 
ously, but  had  no  luck:  his  wife  was  constantly 
ailing,  his  children  died  one  after  the  other;  he 
had  been  "  reduced  to  poverty,"  and  was  abso- 
lutely unable  to  get  on  his  feet  again.  And  it 
must  be  said,  that  a  passion  for  hunting  is  not 
befitting  a  peasant,  and  he  who  "  indulges  him- 
self with  a  gun  "  is  a  bad  farmer. 

Whether  it  arose  from  dwelling  constantly  in 
the  forest,  face  to  face  with  the  mournful  and 
rigorous  nature  of  that  unpopulated  region,  or 
in  consequence  of  a  special  turn  and  type  of  mind, 
at  any  rate,  a  certain  modest  dignity,  precisely 
that,  dignity  and  not  thoughtfulness,— the  dig- 
nity of  a  stately  deer,— was  perceptible  in  all 
Egor's  movements.  In  the  course  of  his  career, 
he  had  killed  seven  bears,  after  having  laid  in 
wait  for  them  in  the  fields  of  oats.  It  was  only 
on  the  fourth  night  that  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
fire  on  the  last :  the  bear  persisted  in  not  standing 
sideways  to  him,  and  he  had  but  one  bullet. 
Egor  had  killed  him  just  before  my  arrival. 
When  Kondrat  conducted  me  to  him,  I  found 
him  in  his  little  back  yard :  squatted  on  his  heels  in 
front  of  the  huge  beast,  he  was  cutting  out  the 
fat  with  a  short,  dull  knife. 

"What  a  fine  fellow  thou  hast  laid  lowl"— 
I  remarked. 

Egor  raised  his  head  and  gazed  first  at  me,  then 
at  the  hound  which  had  come  with  mCc 

214 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"If  you  have  come  to  hunt,  there  are  moor- 
cock at  Moshnoe— three  broods  of  them,  and  five 
of  hazel-hens,"— he  said,  and  turned  again  to  his 
task. 

It  was  with  this  Egor  and  with  Kondrat  that  I 
set  off  on  the  following  day  on  my  hunting  expe- 
dition. We  drove  briskly  across  the  glade  which 
surrounded  Svyatoe,  but  on  entering  the  forest, 
dragged  along  again  at  a  walk. 

"  Yonder  sits  a  wood-pigeon,"  said  Kondrat, 
suddenly  turning  to  me:—"  't  would  be  a  good 
thing  to  knock  it  over." 

Egor  glanced  in  the  direction  whither  Kondrat 
was  pointing,  and  said  nothing.  It  was  a  distance 
of  over  one  hundred  paces  to  the  wood-pigeon, 
and  one  cannot  kill  it  at  forty  paces,  such  is  the 
firmness  of  its  feathers. 

The  loquacious  Kondrat  made  a  few  more  re- 
marks ;  but  not  without  effect  did  the  forest  still- 
ness embrace  him  also:  he  fell  silent.  Only  now 
and  then  exchanging  words,  but  keeping  our  eyes 
fixed  ahead,  and  Hstening  to  the  panting  and 
snorting  of  the  horses,  we  finally  reached  "  Mo- 
shnoe." ^  This  appellation  was  applied  to  a 
mighty  pine  forest,  with  a  sprinkling  of  spruce- 
trees  here  and  there.  We  alighted.  Kondrat 
pushed  the  cart  into  the  bushes,  so  that  the  mos- 
quitoes might  not  bite  the  horses.  Egor  inspected 
the  trigger  of  his  gun,  and  crossed  himself:  he 

*  An  adjective  meaning  mighty.  — ThanslatoS. 

215 


AN  EXCURSION 

never  began  anything  without  the  sign  of  the 
cross. 

The  forest  which  we  had  entered  was  extremely 
aged.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  Tatars  roved 
therein/  but  the  Russian  bandits  and  the  Lithu- 
anians of  the  Troublous  Time  ^  certainly  might 
have  concealed  themselves  in  its  remote  fastnesses. 
At  a  respectful  distance  from  one  another  rose 
the  mighty  pines  with  huge,  slightly-gnarled 
trunks  of  a  pale-yellow  hue ;  between  them,  drawn 
up  in  military  array,  stood  others,  of  lesser 
growth.  Greenish  moss,  all  besprinkled  with 
dead  pine-needles,  covered  the  ground;  the  bog- 
bilberry  grew  in  dense  bushes;  the  strong  odour 
of  its  berries,  resembling  the  perfume  of  musk, 
oppressed  the  breath.  The  sun  could  not  pene- 
trate through  the  lofty  canopy  of  the  pine- 
branches;  but  it  was  stifling  hot  and  not  dark 
in  the  forest,  nevertheless;  like  huge  drops  of 
sweat,  the  heavy,  transparent  pitch  oozed  out 
and  quietly  trickled  down  the  coarse  bark  of  the 
trees.  The  motionless  air,  devoid  of  shadow 
and  devoid  of  light,  burned  the  face.  All  was 
silent;  even  our  footsteps  were  not  audible.  We 
trod  on  the  moss,  as  on  a  carpet ;  Egor,  in  particu- 
lar, moved  noiselessly,  as  though  he  had  been  a 
shadow;   beneath   his    feet   not   even    the    dead 

1  During  the  period  of  the  "TaWr  Yoke,"  in  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries.  —Translator. 

2  In  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  which  ended  'i  the 
election  of  the  first  Romanoff  Tzar.— Translator. 

216 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

branches  crackled.  He  walked  without  haste, 
now  and  then  blowing  his  decoy-whistle ;  a  hazel- 
hen  soon  answered,  and  before  my  very  eyes  dived 
into  a  thick  spruce-tree;  but  in  vain  did  Egor 
point  it  out  to  me:  strain  my  vision  as  I  would, 
I  could  not  possibly  descry  it;  Egor  was  com- 
pelled to  fire  at  it.  We  also  found  two  coveys 
of  moor-cocks;  the  cautious  birds  rose  far  away, 
with  a  heavy,  sharp  clatter;  but  we  succeeded  in 
shooting  three  young  ones. 

At  one  maiddn,^  Egor  suddenly  came  to  a  halt 
and  called  to  me.  "  A  bear  has  been  trying  to 
get  water," — he  said,  pointing  at  a  broad,  fresh 
scratch  in  the  very  centre  of  the  pit,  lined  with 
fine  moss. 

"  Is  that  a  trace  of  his  paws?  " — I  inquired. 

"Yes;  but  the  water  had  dried  up.  He  has 
left  his  traces  on  that  pine-tree  also;  he  climbed 
it  for  honey.  He  has  cut  it  with  his  claws  as  with 
a  knife." 

We  continued  to  make  our  way  into  the  very 
densest  part  of  the  forest.  Egor  only  rarely  cast 
a  glance  upward,  and  walked  on  in  front  calmly 
and  confidently.  I  espied  a  tall,  circular  em- 
bankment, surrounded  by  a  trench  half -filled  with 
earth. 

"  What  is  that,— a  tar-pit  also?"— I  asked. 

"No," — replied  Egor: — "a  fortress  of  brig- 
ands used  to  stand  here." 

1  A  place  where  tar  is  distilled  is  called  a  maiddn. 

217 


AN  EXCURSION 

"  Long  ago? " 

"  Yes,  long  ago;  beyond  the  memories  of  our 
grandfathers.  And  a  treasure  is  buried  here,  too. 
But  a  strong  malediction  is  placed  upon  it;  an 
oath  sworn  on  human  blood." 

We  proceeded  about  a  couple  of  versts  further. 
I  was  thirsty. 

"  Sit  down  a  bit,"— said  Egor:— "  I  will  go  for 
water;  there  is  a  spring  hard  by." 

He  departed;  I  remained  alone. 

I  seated  myself  on  the  stump  of  a  felled  tree, 
propped  my  elbow  on  my  knees,  and  after  a  long 
silence,  slowly  raised  my  head  and  gazed  about 
me.  Oh,  how  quiet  and  grimly-melancholy  was 
everything  around — no,  not  even  melancholy,  but 
dumb,  cold,  and  menacing  at  one  and  the  same 
time!  My  heart  contracted  within  me.  At  that 
moment,  on  that  spot,  I  became  conscious  of  the 
breath  of  death,  I  felt  it;  its  proximity  was  al- 
most tangible.  Not  a  single  sound  quivered,  not 
a  momentary  rustle  arose  in  the  motionless  jaws 
of  the  pine  forest  which  surrounded  me !  Again, 
almost  in  terror,  I  dropped  my  head ;  I  seemed  to 
have  been  gazing  into  something  at  which  a  man 
should  not  look.  ...  I  covered  my  eyes  with  my 
hand — and  suddenly,  as  though  in  obedience  to  a 
mysterious  command,  I  began  to  recall  my  whole 
life.  .  .  . 

Now  my  childhood  flitted  before  me, — noisy 
and  quiet,  irritable  and  good,  with  hurried  joys 

218 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

and  swift  griefs ;  then  my  youth  rose  up,  troubled, 
strange,  vain-glorious,  with  all  its  errors  and  en- 
terprises, with  disordered  labour,  and  agitated  in- 
activity. .  .  .  Then  also  recurred  to  my  mind  the 
comrades  of  my  aspirations  ....  then,  like  a  flash 
of  Jightning  by  night,  several  bright  memories 
gleamed  ....  then  the  shadows  began  to  grow 
and  move  forward;  it  became  darker  and  darker 
around  me;  the  monotonous  years  flew  past  more 
dully  and  quietly — and  sadness  descended  like  a 
stone  upon  my  heart.  I  sat  motionless  gazing 
with  surprise  and  efl*ort,  as  though  I  beheld  my 
whole  life  before  me,  as  though  a  scroll  were  being 
unrolled  before  my  eyes.  "  Oh,  what  have  I 
done?  "  my  lips  involuntarily  uttered  in  a  bitter 
whisper.  "  Oh,  life,  life,  how  art  thou  gone 
without  a  trace?  How  hast  thou  slipped  out  of 
my  tightly-clenched  hands?  Hast  thou  deceived 
me,  or  have  I  failed  to  make  use  of  thy  gifts? 
Is  it  possible?  This  trifle,  this  poor  handful  of 
dusty  ashes— is  that  all  that  is  left  of  thee?  This 
cold,  impassive,  useless  something — is  it  I,  the  I 
of  days  gone  by?  What?  My  soul  has  thirsted 
for  such  full  happiness,  it  has  rejected  with  scorn 
everything  petty,  everything  defective,  it  has 
waited:  in  another  moment  happiness  will  gush 
forth  in  a  flood — and  not  a  single  drop  has  mois- 
tened the  longing  lips?  Oh,  my  golden  chords, 
ye,  who  quivered  so  sensitively,  so  sweetly  once  on 
a  time, — I  hardly  heard  your  song  ....  ye  had 

219 


AN  EXCURSION 

only  just  begun  to  sound,  when  ye  broke.  Or, 
perchance,  happiness,  the  direct  happiness  of  my 
whole  life  has  gone  by  close  to  me,  has  passed 
me,  smiling  with  a  radiant  smile — and  I  have 
failed  to  recognise  its  divine  countenance?  Or 
has  it  really  visited  me  and  sat  on  my  pillow,  but 
I  have  forgotten  it,  as  though  it  had  been  a 
dream?  As  though  it  had  been  a  dream,"— I  re- 
peated dejectedly.  Intangible  images  wandered 
through  my  soul,  evoking  in  me  not  precisely 
pity,  nor  yet  precisely  perplexity.  ..."  And 
you," — I  thought, — "  dear,  familiar,  vanished 
faces,  you  who  have  encircled  me  in  this  dead 
solitude,  why  are  you  so  profoundly  and  sadly 
silent?  From  what  depths  have  ye  risen?  How 
am  I  to  understand  your  enigmatical  glances? 
Are  ye  bidding  me  farewell,  or  are  ye  welcoming 
me?  Oh,  can  it  be  that  there  is  no  hope,  no  re- 
turn? Why  have  ye  flowed  from  my  eyes,  ye 
scanty,  belated  drops?  Oh,  heart,  to  what  end, 
wherefore,  still  feel  pity?  Strive  to  forget  if 
thou  desirest  repose;  train  thyself  to  the  submis- 
sion of  the  last  parting,  to  the  bitter  words: 
'  farewell '  and  '  forever.'  Do  not  look  back,  do 
not  remember,  do  not  aspire  thither  where  it  is 
bright,  where  youth  smiles,  where  joy  profound 
flutters  its  azure  pinions,  where  love,  like  the  dew 
in  the  crimson  dawn,  beams  with  tears  of  rapture ; 
look  not  thither  where  bliss  dwells  and  faith  and 
power — that  is  no  place  for  usl  " 

220 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"  Here  's  your  water  for  you," — rang  out 
Egor's  resonant  voice  behind  me: — "  drink,  with 
God's  blessing!  " 

I  gave  an  involuntary  start:  tliis  living  speech 
administered  a  shock  to  me,  joyously  agitated 
my  who^e  being.  It  was  as  though  I  had  fallen 
into  an  unexplored,  gloomy  depth,  where  every- 
thing round  about  had  grown  still,  and  nothing 
was  audible  save  the  quiet  incessant  moaning  of 
some  eternal  grief  ....  as  though  I  were  dying, 
but  could  not  oifer  resistance;  and  suddenly  a 
friendly  call  had  reached  my  ear,  and  some  one's 
mighty  hand  had  brought  me  forth,  with  one  up- 
ward sweep,  into  God's  daylight.  I  glanced 
round,  and,  with  unspeakable  delight,  perceived 
the  honest  and  composed  face  of  my  guide.  He 
was  standing  before  me  in  a  light  and  stately 
pose,  with  his  wonted  smile,  reaching  out  to  me  a 
small,  damp  bottle,  all  filled  with  fresh  water.  .  .  . 
I  rose. 

"  Let  us  go  on,  guide  me,"— I  said  with  enthu- 
siasm. 

We  set  out  and  roved  about  for  a  long  time, 
until  evening.  As  soon  as  the  midday  heat  "  held 
up,"  it  began  to  grow  cold  and  dark  in  the  forest 
so  swiftly  that  one  no  longer  felt  any  inclination 
to  remain  in  it.  "  Begone,  ye  uneasy  mortals," 
it  seemed  to  be  whispering  to  us  in  surly  wise 
from  behind  every  pine.  We  made  our  way  out, 
but  did  not  soon  find  Kondrat.     We  shouted, 

221 


AN  EXCURSION 

called  him  bj^  name,  but  he  did  not  respond. 
Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  wonderful  stillness 
of  the  air,  we  heard  his  "  whoa!  whoa!  " — ring  out 
in  a  ravine  close  at  hand.  .  .  .  He  had  not  heard 
our  shouts  because  of  the  wind  which  had  sud- 
denly sprung  up,  and  as  suddenly  completely  died 
away.  Only  on  trees  which  stood  apart  could  the 
traces  of  its  gusts  be  seen:  it  had  turned  many 
leaves  wrong  side  out,  and  so  they  remained,  im- 
parting a  motley  appearance  to  the  motionless 
foliage. 

We  climbed  into  the  cart  and  rolled  off  home- 
ward. I  sat  swaying  to  and  fro  and  quietly  in- 
hahng  the  damp,  rather  keen  air,  and  all  my 
recent  visions  and  regrets  were  engulfed  in  one 
sensation  of  dreaminess  and  fatigue,  in  one  desire 
to  return  as  promptly  as  possible  under  the  roof 
of  a  warm  house;  to  drink  tea  with  thick  cream; 
to  burrow  into  the  soft,  porous  hay  and  sleep, 
sleep,  sleep.  .  .  . 

THE  SECOND  DAY 

On  the  following  morning,  we  three  again  betook 
ourselves  to  the  Burnt  District.  Ten  years  pre- 
viously, several  thousand  desyatinas  had  been 
burned  over  in  the  Forest  Belt,  and  up  to  the 
present  time  it  had  not  been  covered  with  a  new 
growth  of  trees;  here  and  there  young  firs  and 
pines  are  springing  up,  but  with  that  exception, 

222 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

there  is  nothing  but  moss  and  ashes  rendered 
worthless  by  long  lying.  On  this  Burnt  District, 
which  is  reckoned  as  lying  twelve  versts  from 
Svyatoe,  grow  all  sorts  of  berries  in  great  quan- 
tities, an(^  woodcock,  which  are  extremely  fond 
of  strawberries  and  red  bilberries,  breed  there. 

We  were  driving  along  in  silence,  when  sud- 
denly Kondrat  raised  his  head. 

"Eh!"— he  exclaimed:— "  why,  I  do  believe 
't  is  Efrem  standing  yonder.  Morning,  Ale- 
xandritch,"— he  added,  raising  his  voice,  and  Hft- 
ing  his  cap. 

A  peasant  of  short  stature,  in  a  short,  black 
peasant-coat  girt  with  a  rope,  stepped  out  from 
under  a  tree  and  approached  the  cart. 

"  Did  they  release  thee?  " — inquired  Kondrat. 

"  I  should  think  they  did !  " — returned  the  peas- 
ant, displaying  his  teeth  in  a  grin. — "It  isn't 
convenient  to  hold  fellows  like  me." 

"  And  is  Piotr  Philippitch  all  right?  " 

"  PhilippofF  is  it?  We  know  our  business,  he  's 
aU  right." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  Why,  Alexandritch,  I  was 
thinking;  '  come,  brother,'  I  was  thinking,  '  now 
lie  down  on  the  frying-pan,  goose! '  " 

"About  Piotr  Philippoff  is  it?  Not  much! 
We  've  seen  his  like  before.  He  tries  to  play 
the  wolf,  but  he  has  a  dog's  tail. — Art  thou  going 
a-hunting,  master?  "—the  little  peasant  suddenly 
inquired,   swiftly  turning   up  to   me   his   little, 

223 


AN  EXCURSION 

puckered-iip  eyes,  and  immediately  dropping 
them  again. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  where,  for  example?  " 

'*  To  the  Burnt  District," — said  Kondrat. 

"You  're  going  to  the  Burnt  District;  look 
out  that  j^ou  don't  drive  into  a  conflagration." 

"  Why,  what  dost  thou  mean?  " 

"  I  have  seen  a  lot  of  moor-cock," — went  on  the 
little  peasant,  as  though  jeering  and  without  re- 
plying to  Kondrat, — "  but  you  won't  hit  on  the 
place;  it  is  a  good  twenty  versts  off  in  a  bee-line. 
And  there  's  Egor — there  's  no  denying  it!  he  's 
as  much  at  home  in  the  pine  forest  as  in  his  own 
yard,  but  even  he  won't  make  his  way  thither. 
Morning,  Egor,  thou  God's  soul  worth  one  ko- 
pek,"— he  suddenly  bellowed. 

"  Morning,  Efrem," — returned  Egor  deliber- 
ately. 

I  stared  with  curiosity  at  this  Efrem.  It  was 
a  long  time  since  I  had  seen  so  strange  a  face. 
He  had  a  long,  sharp  nose,  big  lips,  and  a  scanty 
beard.  His  blue  eyes  fairly  darted  about  like 
fireworks.  He  stood  in  a  free-and-easy  attitude, 
with  his  arms  set  lightly  akimbo,  and  did  not  doff 
his  cap. 

"  Art  on  a  visit  home,  pray?  " — Kondrat  asked 
him. 

"  Exh-sta !  on  a  visit !  'T  is  not  the  weather 
now  for  that,  brother.     I  've  been  on  a  spree. 

224 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

I'  ve  been  cutting  a  dash,  brother,  that  's  what. 
Thou  mayest  He  on  the  stove  until  winter,  and  not 
a  single  dog  will  sneeze.  That  superintendent 
yonder  in  the  town  said  to  me : '  Leave  us,  Alexan- 
dritch,'  says  he,  '  go  away  out  of  the  country ; 
we  '11  give  thee  a  first-class  passport  ....  but 
I  'm  sorry  for  thy  Svyatoe  folks;  they  can't  pro- 
duce another  such  thief  as  thou.'  " 

Kondrat  broke  out  laughing. 

"  Thou  art  a  jester,  little  uncle,  a  regular 
jester,"— he  said,  giving  the  reins  a  shake.  The 
horses  started  on. 

"  Whoa!  " — said  Efrem.  The  horses  came  to 
a  standstill.    Kondrat  did  not  like  this  sally. 

"  Stop  thy  insolence,  Alexandritch," — he  re- 
marked in  an  undertone.  "  Dost  thou  not  see  that 
we  are  driving  a  gentleman?  He  '11  get  angry, 
the  first  thou  knowest." 

"  Ekh,  thou  sea-drake!  What  is  there  for  him 
to  get  angry  about?  He  's  a  kind  gentleman. 
Just  see  now,  he  '11  give  me  some  money  for  vodka. 
Ekh,  master,  give  the  wayfarer  the  price  of  a 
dram!  I  '11  dispose  of  it," — he  caught  himself  up, 
elevating  his  shoulder  to  his  ear,  and  gnashing 
his  teeth. 

I  involuntarily  smiled,  gave  him  a  ten-kopek 
piece,  and  ordered  Kondrat  to  drive  on. 

"  Much  obliged.  Your  Well-born,"— shouted 
Efrem  after  us,  in  militaiy  fashion.^     "  And  do 

1 "  Much  satisfied  "  (in  the  plural),  literally, — Teanslator. 

225 


AN  EXCURSION 

thou,  Kondrat,  henceforth  know  from  whom  thou 
shouldst  take  lessons;  the  timid  man  is  done  for, 
the  bold  man  succeeds.  When  thou  returnest 
drop  in  to  see  me,  dost  hear?  I  shall  have  liquor 
on  hand  for  three  days ;  we  '11  polish  off  a  couple 
of  bottles;  my  wife  's  a  shrew,  the  housekeeping 
goes  as  on  runners.  .  .  .  Hey,  white-sided  magpie, 
carouse  while  thy  tail  is  whole!  " 

And  whistling  shrilly,  Efrem  dived  into  the 
bushes. 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?  "—I  inquired  of 
Kondrat,  who,  as  he  sat  on  the  box,  kept  shaking 
his  head  as  though  engaged  in  argument  with 
himself. 

"That  one,  you  mean?" — returned  Kondrat, 
dropping  his  eyes. — "  That  one,  you  mean? "  he 
repeated. 

"  Yes.    Is  he  one  of  your  villagers?  " 

"  Yes ;  he  belongs  in  Svyatoe.  He  's  the  sort  of 
a  man  ....  Such  another  is  n't  to  be  found  for 
a  hundred  versts.  Such  a  thief  and  rascal — and, 
oh,  my  God!  his  eye  fairly  warps  at  other  folks' 
goods.  You  can't  get  away  from  him  even  by 
burrowing  in  the  earth ;  and  as  for  money,  for  ex- 
ample, why,  he  '11  drag  it  out  from  underneath 
your  very  backbone  without  your  noticing  it." 

"  What  a  daring  fellow  he  is!  " 

"Daring?  Yes;  he  is  n't  afraid  of  anybody. 
Just  you  take  a  good  look  at  him :  from  his  phy- 
nasomy  he  's  a  knave;  you  can  fairly  detect  that 

226 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

from  his  nose."  (Kondrat  frequently  drove  with 
gentlemen,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the 
county  town;  consequently,  he  was  fond,  on  oc- 
casion, of  showing^oif . )  "  And  you  can't  do  any- 
thing to  him.  Many  a  time  they  've  haled  him  to 
town  and  put  him  in  prison, — and  only  loss  came 
of  it.  They  will  begin  to  bind  him,  and  he  '11 
say:  '  Come  now,  are  n't  you  going  to  fetter  that 
leg?  Fetter  it  also,  and  as  strongly  as  you  can, 
and  I  '11  take  a  nap  in  the  meantime ;  but  I  '11  reach 
home  quicker  than  your  guards.'  You  look:  and 
he  really  has  got  back,  he  's  there  again,  akh!  oh, 
thou  my  God!  All  of  us  hereabouts  know  the 
forest;  we  've  been  used  to  it  from  our  infancy, 
but  we  can't  compete  with  him.  Last  summer, 
he  came  by  night  in  a  bee-line  from  Altiikhin  to 
Syvatoe,  which  must  be  forty  versts.  And  as  for 
stealing  honey,  he  's  a  master-hand  at  that;  and 
not  a  bee  stings  him.  He  has  devastated  all  the 
bee-farms." 

"  I  suppose  he  shows  no  quarter  to  the  wild 
hives  either? " 

"Well,  no;  why  accuse  him  without  cause? 
That  sin  has  not  been  noticed  in  him.  A  wild 
hive  is  a  sacred  thing  with  us.  A  bee-farm  is 
fenced  in;  there  is  a  guard;  if  he  purloins  that, — 
that  's  according  to  luck ;  but  a  wild  bee  is  God's 
affair,  not  guarded;  only  a  bear  touches  it." 

"  That  's  because  he  is  a  bear,"— remarked 
Egor. 

227 


AN  EXCURSION 

"  Is  he  married?  " 

"  Certainly.  And  he  has  a  son.  And  his  son 
will  turn  out  a  thief  also!  He  takes  after  his 
father  completely.  And  he  's  teaching  him  now. 
A  little  while  ago  he  brought  home  a  pot  full  of 
old  five-kopek  pieces, — he  had  stolen  it  some- 
where, of  course ;  he  went  and  buried  it  in  a  glade 
in  the  forest,  but  returned  home  himself  and  sent 
his  son  to  the  glade.  '  I  won't  give  thee  anything 
to  eat  until  thou  findest  the  pot,'  says  he ;  '  and  I 
won't  let  thee  into  the  house.' — The  son  sat  a 
whole  day  in  the  forest,  and  spent  the  night  in  the 
forest;  but  he  found  the  pot.  Yes,  he  's  clever, 
that  Efrem.  So  long  as  he  's  at  home,  he  's  an 
amiable  man,  he  treats  everybody:  drink,  eat,  as 
much  as  thou  wilt;  and  folks  set  up  dancing  at 
his  house,  and  all  sorts  of  drollery;  but  if  he  's 
at  the  assembly, — we  have  such  an  assembly  in 
our  village, — the  best  thing  a  man  can  do  is  not 
to  condemn  him;  he  '11  come  up  from  behind, 
listen,  say  a  word,  as  though  he  were  chopping 
something,  and  off  he  '11  go;  and  't  is  a  weighty 
word.  And  if  he  goes  off  into  the  forest,  well, 
then  look  out  for  a  catastrophe !  Expect  ruin.  But 
I  must  say  one  thing,  that  he  won't  touch  his  own 
fellow-villagers  unless  he  's  in  a  tight  place  him- 
self. If  he  meets  a  Svyatoe  man,—'  Turn  out, 
and  get  past  me,  brother,' — he  '11  shout  from  afar: 
— '  The  forest  spirit  has  come  over  me:  I  'm  in 
murderous  mood! ' — Calamity!  " 

228 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"  But  why  do  you  pay  any  heed  to  that?  Can- 
not the  whole  countryside  get  the  better  of  one 
man?  " 

"  Why,  apparGiitly  they  can't." 

"  Is  he  a  wizard,  pray?  " 

"Who  knows?  A  while  ago,  he  got  into  the 
bee-farm  of  the  neighbouring  chanter,  by  night; 
yet  the  chanter  was  on  guard  himself.  Well,  he 
caught  him,  and  gave  him  a  good  thrashing  in 
the  darkness.  When  he  got  through,  Efrem  says 
to  him :  '  And  dost  thou  know  whom  thou  hast 
thrashed  ? '  And  when  the  chanter  recognised 
him  by  his  voice,  he  was  fairly  dumfounded. 
'  Well,  brother,'  says  Efrem,  '  thou  shalt  pay  for 
this.'  The  chanter  fell  at  his  feet:  '  Take  what 
thou  wilt,'  says  he.  —  '  No,'  says  the  other,  '  I  '11 
take  from  thee  at  my  own  time,  and  what  I 
choose.'— And  what  think  you?  From  that  very 
day,  the  chanter  began  to  wander  about  hke  a 
shadow,   just  as   though  he  had  been   scalded. 

*  My  heart  is  pining  away  within  me,'  says  he : 

*  evidently,  the  brigand  has  fastened  on  me  an 
awfiTlly  strong  spell.'— And  that  's  what  hap- 
pened to  him,  to  that  chanter." 

"  That  chanter  must  be  stupid,"— I  remarked. 

"  Stupid?  And  is  that  the  way  you  judge? 
Once  an  order  was  issued  to  capture  that  same 
Efrem.  We  've  got  such  a  sharp  commissary 
of  police !  So  ten  men  set  out  to  capture  Efrem. 
They  see  him  coming  toward  them.  .  .  .  One  of 

229 


AN  EXCURSION 

them  begins  to  shout : '  There  he  is,  hold  him,  bind 
him ! '  But  Ef rem  goes  into  the  forest,  and  cuts 
himself  a  cudgel,  about  two  fingers  thick,  and 
leaps  out  again  on  the  road,  so  hideous,  so  terrible, 
and  commands,  like  a  general  on  parade :  '  On 
your  knees!'— and  down  they  all  fall. — 'And 
who  was  it,'— says  he, — *  that  shouted, — "  Hold 
him,  bind  him?  "  Thou,  Seryoga? '  And  the  lat- 
ter just  springs  to  his  feet,  and  makes  oiF.  .  . 
But  Efrem  follows  him  and  whacks  him  on  the 
heels  with  his  cudgel.  .  .  .  He  stroked  him  for 
about  a  verst.  And  afterward  he  was  always  com- 
plaining :  '  Ekh,  I  'm  vexed,'  says  he,  '  that  I 
did  n't  prevent  his  eating  flesh  for  the  last  time 
before  the  fast.'  This  happened  just  before  the 
fast  of  St.  Philip.  Well,  and  the  commissary  of 
police  was  soon  superseded, — and  that  was  the 
end  of  the  whole  matter." 

"  But  why  did  they  all  submit  to  him? " 
"  Why!  because  they  just  did.  .  .  ." 
"  He  has  scared  all  of  you,  and  now  he  does 
what  he  pleases  with  you." 

"  He  has  scared  us.  .  .  .  But  he  '11  scare  any 
one  you  like.  And  he  's  clever  at  inventions. 
O  thou,  my  God!— Once  I  stumbled  upon  him  in 
the  forest,  and  such  a  healthy  rain  was  coming 
down  that  I  was  about  to  turn  aside.  .  .  .  But 
he  looked  at  me,  and  beckoned  me  up  so,  with  his 
hand.  '  Come  hither,  Kondrat,'  says  he,  '  don't 
be  afraid.     Learn  from  me  how  to  live  in  the 

230 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

forest,  and  what  to  do  in  a  rain.'  I  approached 
him,  and  he  was  sitting  under  a  spruce-tree  and 
had  lighted  a  small  fire  of  damp  branches;  the 
smoke  had  caught  in  the  spruce,  and  prevented 
the  rain  from,  dripping  down.  I  was  astonished 
at  him.  And  then,  here  's  another  thing  he  in- 
vented, once  on  a  time  "  (and  Kondrat  broke  into 
a  laugh) ,  "  and  amused  us.  Our  oats  were  being 
threshed  on  the  threshing-floor,  but  the  men  had 
not  finished;  they  had  not  managed  to  rake  to- 
gether the  last  pile.  Well,  and  so  they  stationed 
two  sentries  for  the  night;  but  the  lads  were  not 
of  the  brave  sort.  So,  they  were  sitting  and  chat- 
tering, when  Efrem  took  and  filled  the  sleeves  of 
his  shirt  with  straw,  and  tied  the  ends,  and  put 
the  shirt  on  his  head.  So  he  crept  up  to  the  kiln 
in  that  guise,  and  began  to  show  himself  a  little 
from  round  the  corner,  and  thrust  forth  his  horns. 
One  young  fellow  says  to  the  other :  '  Dost  see  ? ' 
— '  I  see,'  says  the  other,  and  suddenly  uttered  an 
exclamation  ....  only  the  cords  of  their  bast- 
slippers  burst.  But  Efrem  gathered  the  oats  into 
a  sack  and  dragged  it  off  to  his  house.  He  told 
all  about  it  himself  afterward.  How  he  did 
shame  them,  shame  those  lads.  .  .  .  Truly!" 

Again  Kondrat  burst  out  laughing.  And 
Egor  smiled.  "  Only  the  cords  of  their  bast-slip- 
pers burst?  "  said  he. 

Again  we  all  relapsed  into  silence.  Suddenly 
Kondrat  gave  a  start  of  alarm  and  sat  up  straight. 

231 


AN  EXCURSION 

"Hey,  good  heavens!"— he  exclaimed;— 
*'  why,  I  do  believe  there  's  a  fire!  " 

"  Where?    Where?  " — we  asked. 

"  Yonder,  look,  straight  ahead  in  the  direction 
we  're  driving.  ...  A  fire  it  is.  That  Efrem, 
— Efrem  predicted  it.  Can  it  be  his  doing,  the 
accursed  soul?  .  .  .  ." 

I  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  by  Kon- 
drat.  In  fact,  two  or  three  versts  in  front  of  us, 
behind  a  green  band  of  low  spruce-trees,  a  thick 
pillar  of  blue  smoke  was  slowly  rising  from  the 
earth,  gradually  curving  and  assuming  the  form 
of  a  cap ;  to  the  right  and  left  of  it  others,  smaller 
and  whiter,  were  \asible. 

A  peasant,  all  red  in  the  face  and  perspiring, 
clad  in  nothing  but  his  shirt,  with  his  hair  di- 
shevelled above  his  frightened  face,  was  galloping 
straight  toward  us,  and  with  difficulty  drew  up  his 
hastily-bridled  horse. 

"  Brothers,"— he  asked  in  a  panting  voice, — 
"  have  n't  you  seen  any  of  the  forest  guards?  " 

"  No;  we  have  n't.  What  is  it— is  the  forest 
on  fire? " 

"  Yes.  The  people  must  be  assembled ;  other- 
wise, it  will  take  the  direction  of  Trosnoe.  .  .  ." 

The  peasant  jerked  his  elbows,  as  he  kicked  the 
flanks  of  his  horse  with  his  heels.  ...  It  galloped 
off. 

Kondrat  also  urged  on  his  pair.  We  drove 
straight  at  the  smoke,  which  spread  out  more  and 

232 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

more  widely;  in  places  it  suddenly  turned  black 
and  spurted  up  aloft.  The  nearer  we  came,  the 
less  clear  became  its  outlines;  soon  the  air  was 
all  dimmed,  there  was  a  strong  odour  of  burning, 
and  the  first  pale-red  tongues  of  flame  flashed 
out,  moving  strangely  and  terribly  among  the 
trees. 

"Well,  God  be  thanked,"— said  Kondrat:— 
"  it  appears  to  be  a  ground  fire." 

"A  what?" 

"  A  ground  fii-e ;  the  sort  which  runs  along  the 
ground.  'T  is  difficult  to  get  control  of  an  un- 
derground fire.  What  is  one  to  do  when  the 
earth  is  burning  for  a  whole  arshin  ^  down  ?  There 
is  but  one  salvation:  dig  trenches— and  is  that 
easy?  But  a  ground  fire  is  nothing.  It  will  only 
shave  off  the  grass,  and  burn  up  the  dead  leaves. 
The  forest  is  all  the  better  for  it.  But  good  heav- 
ens, just  see,  how  it  has  struck  out!  " 

We  drove  almost  to  the  very  verge  of  the  con- 
flagration. I  alighted  and  walked  toward  it. 
This  was  neither  difficult  nor  dangerous.  The 
fire  was  running  through  tlie  sparse  pine  forest 
against  the  wind;  it  was  moving  with  an  uneven 
line,  or,  to  speak  more  accurately,  in  a  dense,  ser- 
rated wall  of  reflexed  tongues.  The  smoke  was 
carried  away  by  the  wind.  Kondrat  had  told 
the  truth;  it  really  was  a  ground  fire,  which  was 
merely  shaving  off"  the  grass,  and  without  flam- 

1  Twenty-eight  inches— the  Russian  yard-measure.— Teanslatoh. 

233 


AN  EXCURSION 

ing  up  was  proceeding  onward,  leaving  behind  it 
a  black  and  smoking,  but  not  even  smouldering, 
track.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  in  places  where  the 
fire  encountered  a  depression  filled  with  a  thicket 
and  dried  branches,  it  suddenly  reared  itself  aloft 
with  a  certain  peculiar,  decidedly  ominous  roar, 
in  long,  billowy  tufts;  but  it  speedily  subsided, 
and  ran  onward  as  before,  lightly  crackling  and 
hissing.  I  even  noticed  more  than  once,  how  an 
oak-bush  with  dry,  pendent  leaves,  though  sur- 
rounded by  the  flame  remained  untouched;  it 
merely  got  a  little  singed  below.  I  must  confess 
that  I  could  not  understand  why  the  dry  leaves 
did  not  catch  fire.  Kondrat  explained  to  me  that 
this  arose  from  the  fact  that  it  was  a  ground  fire, 
"  that  is  to  say,  not  an  angry  one." 

"  But  it  is  a  fire,  nevertheless,"  I  retorted. 
— "  'T  is  a  ground  fire," — repeated  Kondrat. 
But  although  it  was  a  ground  fire,  yet  the  con- 
flagration produced  its  eff*ect:  the  hares  were 
scurrying  back  and  forth  in  a  disorderly  sort  of 
way,  quite  unnecessarily  returning  to  the  vicinity 
of  the  fire;  birds  got  caught  in  the  smoke,  and 
circled  about ;  the  horses  glanced  about  them,  and 
snorted;  the  very  forest  seemed  to  be  booming, 
— and  man  felt  uncomfortable  with  the  heat 
which  suddenly  struck  him  in  the  face.  ... 

"  What  's  the  use  of  looking  at  it?  "—said 
Egor  suddenly  behind  my  back.—"  Let 's  go  on." 

"  But  where  are  we  to  pass  through?  " 

234 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

"  Turn  to  the  left,  over  the  dry  marsh,— we  can 
drive  across." 

We  turned  to  the  left  and  drove  over,  although 
sometimes  it  was  rather  hard  on  the  horses  and 
the  cart. 

All  day  long  we  dragged  on  through  the 
Burnt  District.  Just  before  evening  (the  sun- 
set glow  had  not  yet  kindled  in  the  sky,  but  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  already  lay  motionless  and 
long;  and  in  the  grass  that  chill  was  perceptible 
which  precedes  the  dew)  I  lay  down  on  the  road 
near  the  cart, — to  which  Kondrat  was  engaged, 
without  haste,  in  harnessing  the  horses  which  had 
eaten  their  fill,— and  recalled  my  cheerless  visions 
of  the  day  before.  Everything  round  about  was 
as  still  as  on  the  preceding  day ;  but  the  soul-op- 
pressing and  crowding  pine  forest  was  not  there ; 
on  the  tall  moss,  the  lilac  steppe-grass,  the  soft 
dust  of  the  road,  the  slender  boles  and  clean  lit- 
tle leaves  of  the  young  birches,  lay  the  clear  and 
gentle  light  of  the  low-hanging,  no  longer  sultry, 
sun.  Everything  was  resting,  immersed  in  a 
soothing  coolness ;  nothing  had  yet  fallen  asleep, 
but  everything  was  already  preparing  for  the 
healing  slumber  of  the  evening  and  the  night. 
Everything  seemed  to  be  saying  to  man:  *'  Rest, 
our  brother ;  breathe  lightly  and  do  not  grieve  be- 
fore sleep,  which  is  near  at  hand."  I  raised  my 
head  and  beheld,  at  the  very  tip  of  a  slender 
branch,  one  of  those  large  flies  with  an  emerald 

235 


AN  EXCURSION 

head,  a  long  body,  and  four  transparent  wings, 
which  tlie  French  coquettishly  designate  as  "  de- 
moiselles," and  our  guileless  folk  call  "  yokes." 
For  a  long  time,  more  than  an  hour,  I  did  not 
take  my  eyes  off  it.  Baked  through  and  through 
by  the  sun,  it  did  not  stir,  but  only  now  and  then 
turned  its  head  from  side  to  side,  and  let  its 
raised  wings  palpitate  ....  that  is  all.  As  I 
gazed  at  it,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  me  that  I  un- 
derstood the  life  of  nature, — understood  its  clear 
and  indubitable,  though  for  many  still  mysteri- 
ous meaning.  The  slow  and  quiet  inspiration, 
leisureliness  and  reserve  of  sensations  and  of 
forces,  the  equilibrium  of  health  in  each  separate 
individual— that  is  its  very  basis,  its  irrevocable 
law ;  that  is  the  thing  on  which  it  stands  and  is  up- 
held. Everything  which  deviates  from  this  level 
— either  above  or  below,  it  makes  no  difference — 
is  cast  forth  by  it  as  worthless.  Many  insects  die 
as  soon  as  they  know  the  equilibrium-destroying 
joy  of  love;  an  ailing  wild  beast  plunges  into  the 
dense  thickets,  and  expires  there  alone :  it  seems  to 
feel  that  it  no  longer  has  a  right  to  behold  the  sun, 
which  is  common  to  all,  or  to  breathe  the  free  air ; 
it  has  not  the  right  to  live;  but  man,  whose  lot 
is  evil  in  the  world,  whether  by  his  own  fault  or 
through  that  of  others,  must  at  least  know  how  to 
hold  his  peace. 

"  Come,  what  art  thou  about,  Egor?  "—sud- 
denly exclaimed  Kondrat,  who  had  already  man- 

236 


TO  THE  FOREST  BELT 

aged  to  mount  the  box  of  the  cart,  and  was  play- 
ing with  and  disentanghng  the  reins. — "Come, 
take  thy  seat.  What  hast  thou  fallen  to  musing 
about?    Still  about  the  cow ?  " 

"About  the  cow?  About  what  cow?  " — I  asked, 
glancing  at  Egor.  Calm  and  dignified  as  ever, 
he  really  had  fallen  to  musing,  apparently,  and 
was  gazing  off  somewhere  into  the  distance,  at  the 
fields  which  were  already  beginning  to  grow  dark. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know?  "—retorted  Kondrat: 
— "  his  last  cow  died  last  night.  He  has  no  luck — 
what  's  to  be  done  ?  " 

Egor  took  his  seat  in  silence  on  the  box,  and  we 
drove  off.  "  That  man  knows  how  to  refrain 
from  complaining,"  I  thought. 


237 


ASYA 

(1857) 


ASYA 


I  WAS  five-and-twenty  years  of  age  at  the 
time  [began  N.  N.]. — 'T  is  an  aiFair  of  days 
long  past,  as  you  see.  I  had  just  acquired  my 
freedom  and  had  gone  abroad;  not  in  order  to 
"  finish  my  education,"  as  people  expressed  it 
then,  but  simply  because  I  wanted  to  see  God's 
world.  I  was  healthy,  young,  cheerful;  my 
money  was  not  exhausted ;  cares  had  not  yet  suc- 
ceeded in  accumulating;  I  lived  without  looking 
back,  I  did  what  I  wished:  in  one  word,  I  flour- 
ished. It  never  entered  my  head  that  man  is  not 
a  plant,  and  that  he  cannot  flourish  long.  Youth 
eats  gilded  gingerbread  cakes  and  thinks  they  are 
its  daily  bread;  but  a  time  will  come  when  one 
will  beg  for  bread.  But  there  is  no  use  in  dis- 
cussing that. 

I  was  travelling  utterly  without  an  aim,  without 
a  plan;  I  was  halting  everywhere  where  things 
pleased  me,  and  immediately  proceeded  onward, 
as  soon  as  I  felt  a  desire  to  see  new  faces — pre- 
cisely that,  faces.    People  alone  and  exclusively; 

241 


ASYA 

interested  me;  I  hated  curious  monuments,  note- 
worthy collections ;  the  mere  sight  of  a  local  guide 
aroused  in  me  a  sensation  of  melancholy  and 
wrath.  I  nearly  went  out  of  my  mind  in  the 
Griine  Gewolbe  in  Dresden.  Nature  had  a  very 
great  eiFect  on  me,  but  I  did  not  love  its  so- 
called  beauties,  remarkable  mountains,  cliffs,  and 
waterfalls;  I  did  not  like  to  have  it  force  itself 
upon  me,  interfere  with  me.  On  the  other  hand, 
faces,— living,  human  faces,— people's  speech, 
their  movements,  their  laughter,  were  what  I 
could  not  dispense  with.  I  had  always  felt  pecu- 
liarly gay  and  at  my  ease  in  a  crowd ;  I  found  it 
cheerful  to  go  where  other  people  went,  to  shout 
when  others  shouted;  and,  at  the  same  time,  I 
liked  to  watch  those  others  shout.  It  amused  me 
to  watch  people.  . . .  yes,  and  I  did  not  even  watch 
them— I  contemplated  them  with  a  sort  of  joyous 
and  insatiable  curiosity.  But  I  am  digressing 
again. 

So  then,  twenty  years  ago,  I  was  residing  in  the 
small  German  town  of  Z.,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhine.  I  was  seeking  sohtude;  I  had  just  been 
wounded  in  the  heart  by  a  young  widow,  with 
whom  I  had  become  acquainted  at  the  baths.  She 
was  very  pretty  and  clever;  she  coquetted  with 
every  one — including  sinful  me;  and  at  first  she 
even  encouraged  me,  but  afterward  wounded  me 
cruelly,  sacrificing  me  to  a  red-cheeked  Bavarian 
lieutenant.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  the  wound 
in  my  heart  was  not  very  deep;  but  I  regarded 

242 


ASYA 

it  as  my  duty  to  surrender  myself  to  grief  and 
soKtude  for  a  certain  time, — with  what  will  not 
youth  divert  itself !— and  I  settled  in  Z. 

This  little  town  pleased  me  by  its  site  at  the 
foot  of  two  lofty  hills ;  by  its  decrepit  walls  and 
towers,  its  aged  lindens,  and  the  steep  bridge  over 
the  bright  little  river,  which  fell  into  the  Rhine; 
but  chiefly  by  its  good  wine.  Through  its  narrow 
streets  there  strolled  in  the  evening,  immediately 
after  sunset  (this  was  in  July) ,  extremely  pretty, 
fair-haired  German  maidens,  and  on  meeting  a 
stranger  they  articulated  with  a  pleasant  voice: 
"  Guten  Abend!  '^— and  some  of  them  did  not  de- 
part even  when  the  moon  rose  from  behind  the 
steep  roofs  of  the  ancient  houses,  and  the  tiny 
stones  of  the  pavement  were  clearly  outlined  in 
its  motionless  rays.  I  loved  to  wander  then 
through  the  town ;  the  moon  seemed  to  be  gazing 
intently  at  it  from  the  clear  sky;  and  the  town 
felt  that  gaze,  and  stood  sensitive  and  peaceful, 
all  bathed  in  its  light,— that  tranquil  and,  at  the 
same  time,  soul-agitating  light.  The  cock  on  the 
tall  Gothic  belfry  glittered  like  pale  gold;  the 
same  gold  was  diffused  in  streams  over  the  shin- 
ing black  expanse  of  the  little  river;  slender 
candles  (the  German  is  economical!)  burned  mod- 
estly in  the  narrow  windows  under  the  slate-cov- 
ered roofs;  grape-vines  mysteriously  thrust  their 
curled  moustaches  from  behind  stone  walls ;  some- 
thing flitted  past  in  the  shadow  near  the  ancient 
well  on  the  triangular  market-place ;  suddenly  the 

243 


ASYA 

somnolent  whistle  of  the  night  watchman  rang 
out,  a  good-natured  dog  growled  in  an  undertone, 
the  air  fairly  caressed  one's  face,  and  the  lin- 
dens emitted  so  sweet  a  perfume  that  one's  chest 
involuntarily  inhaled  deeper  and  deeper  breaths, 
and  the  word:  "  Gretchen  " — not  quite  an  excla- 
mation nor  yet  quite  a  query — fairly  forced  itself 
to  one's  lips. 

The  little  town  of  Z.  lies  a  couple  of  versts  dis- 
tant from  the  Rhine.  I  frequently  walked  to  take 
a  look  at  the  majestic  stream  and,  as  I  mused, — 
not  without  some  effort, — on  the  sly  widow,  I 
would  sit  for  long  hours  on  a  stone  bench,  beneath 
a  huge,  isolated  ash-tree.  A  small  statue  of  the 
Madonna,  with  almost  childish  face  and  a  red 
heart  on  her  breast,  transfixed  by  swords,  gazed 
sadly  forth  from  among  its  branches.  On  the 
opposite  shore  was  the  small  town  of  L.,  a  little 
larger  than  the  one  in  which  I  had  settled  down. 
One  evening  I  was  sitting  on  my  favourite  bench, 
gazing  now  at  the  river,  now  at  the  sky,  and  again 
at  the  vineyards.  In  front  of  me,  tow-headed 
urchins  were  clambering  over  the  sides  of  a  boat, 
drawn  up  on  the  shore,  and  overturned  with  its 
tarred  bottom  upward.  Small  vessels  were  run- 
ning under  slightly  inflated  sails;  the  greenish 
waves  were  gliding  past,  faintly  swelling  and 
gurgling.  Suddenly  the  sounds  of  music  were 
wafted  to  my  ear :  I  began  to  listen.  A  waltz  was 
being  played  in  the  town  of  L.;  a  bass-viol  was 

244 


ASYA 

droning  spasmodically;  a  violin  was  trilling  in- 
distinctly ;  a  flute  was  piping  valorously. 

"  What 's  that?  "—I  enquired  of  an  old  man  in 
a  velveteen  waistcoat,  blue  stockings  and  buckled 
shoes,  who  approached  me. 

"  That," — he  replied,  having  preliminarily 
shifted  the  mouthpiece  of  his  pipe  from  one  cor- 
ner of  his  mouth  to  the  other,—"  is  students  who 
have  come  from  B.,  for  a  commers." 

"  I  believe  I  '11  take  a  look  at  that  commers," 
—I  thought.  —  "  By  the  way,  I  have  n't  been  in 
L.,  as  yet."  I  hunted  up  a  wherryman  and  set 
off  for  the  other  shore. 


II 

It  is  not  every  one,  possibly,  who  knows  what  a 
commers  is.  It  is  a  peculiar  sort  of  triumphal 
banquet,  at  which  the  students  of  one  land  or  fra- 
ternity {Landsmannschaft)  assemble.  Almost 
all  the  participants  on  a  commers  wear  the  cos- 
tume,— established  long  ago, — of  German  stu- 
dents: a  round  jacket,  large  boots,  and  tiny  caps 
with  bands  of  familiar  colours.  The  students 
generally  assemble  for  a  dinner,  presided  over  by 
the  Senior,  that  is  to  say,  the  Elder,— and  feast 
until  morning,  drink,  sing  the  songs,  "  Landes- 
vater,"  "  Gaudeamus,"  smoke  and  curse  the  Phi- 
listines ;  sometimes  they  hire  an  orchestra. 

Just  this  sort  of  a  commers  was  in  progress 

245 


ASYA 

in  L.,  in  front  of  a  small  inn  under  the  sign- 
board of  the  "  Sun,"  in  a  garden  which  abutted 
on  the  street.  Over  the  inn  itself,  and  the  garden, 
flags  were  fluttering ;  the  students  were  sitting  at 
tables  under  the  clipped  lindens ;  a  huge  bull-dog 
was  lying  under  one  of  the  tables;  on  one  side, 
in  an  arbour  of  ivy,  the  musicians  were  installed 
and  were  playing  industriously,  constantly  rein- 
forcing their  strength  with  beer.  On  the  street, 
in  front  of  the  low  fence  of  the  garden,  a  consid- 
erable number  of  people  were  gathered :  the  good- 
natured  citizens  of  L.  had  not  wished  to  let  slip 
the  opportunity  of  staring  at  visitors  from  a  dis- 
tance. I  also  mingled  in  the  crowd  of  spectators. 
It  cheered  me  to  look  at  the  faces  of  the  students ; 
their  embraces,  exclamations,  the  innocent  co- 
quetry of  youth,  the  ardent  glances,  the  cause- 
less laughter — the  best  laughter  in  the  world, — 
all  this  joyous  ebullition  of  young,  fresh  life,  this 
impulse  in  advance — no  matter  where,  so  long  as 
it  was  forward, — this  good-natured  liberty 
touched  and  kindled  me.  Why  not  join  them? 
I  asked  myself.  .  .  . 

"Asya,  art  thou  satisfied?" — suddenly  said  a 
man's  voice  behind  me,  in  Russian. 

"  Let  us  wait  a  little  longer," — rephed  another, 
a  feminine  voice,  in  the  same  language. 

I  wheeled  hastily  round.  .  .  My  gaze  fell  upon 
a  handsome  young  man  in  a  foraging-cap  and  a 
roomy  round- jacket.    He  was  arm  in  arm  with  a 

246 


ASYA 

young  girl  of  short  stature,  with  a  straw  hat 
which  covered  the  whole  upper  part  of  her  face. 

"You  are  Russians?  "—broke  involuntarily 
from  my  tongue. 

The  young  man  smiled  and  said : 

"  Yes;  we  are  Russians." 

"  I  did  not  in  the  least  expect  ....  in  such  a 
remote  nook  .  .  .  ."I  was  beginning  .... 

"  And  we  did  not  expect,"— he  interrupted  me; 
— "  what  of  that?  so  much  the  better.  Allow  me 
to  introduce  myself.  My  name  is  Gagin,  and  this 
is  my  "  ....  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,—"  is 
my  sister.    And  may  I  ask  your  name?  " 

I  mentioned  my  name,  and  we  got  into  conver- 
sation. I  learned  that  Gagin,  while  travelling  for 
pleasure,  like  myself,  had  arrived  in  the  town  of 
L.  a  week  previously,  and  had  stuck  fast  there. 
Truth  to  tell,  I  was  not  fond  of  making  acquain- 
tance with  Russians  abroad.  I  recognised  them 
from  afar  by  their  walk,  the  cut  of  their  garments, 
and,  chiefly,  by  the  expression  of  their  faces.  Con- 
ceited and  scornful,  often  imperious,  it  was  sud- 
denly replaced  by  an  expression  of  caution  and 
timidity.  .  .  .  The  man  would  suddenly  become 
all  alert,  his  eyes  would  roll  about  uneasily.  .  .  . 
"  Good  heavens!  have  n't  I  blundered?  Are  n't 
people  laughing  at  me?  "  that  hurried  glance 
seemed  to  be  saying.  ...  A  moment  passed,— 
and  again  the  majesty  of  the  physiognomy  was 
restored,  now  and  then  giving  way,  in  turn,  to  dull 

247 


ASYA 

perplexity.  Yes,  I  avoided  Russians,  but  I  took 
an  instantaneous  liking  to  Gagin.  There  are  in 
the  world  such  happy  faces,  that  every  one  likes 
to  look  at  them,  as  though  they  warmed  or  ca- 
ressed you.  Gagin  had  precisely  such  a  face, 
charming,  caressing,  with  large,  soft  eyes,  and 
soft,  curly  hair.  He  spoke  in  such  a  way  that, 
without  seeing  his  face,  merely  from  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  you  felt  that  he  was  smiling. 

The  young  girl  whom  he  had  called  his  sister, 
seemed  to  me  very  pretty  at  the  first  glance. 
There  was  something  individual,  peculiar  in  the 
form  of  her  dark-skinned,  round  face,  with  its 
small,  slender  nose,  almost  childish  little  cheeks, 
and  bright,  black  eyes.  She  was  gracefully  built, 
and  apparently  not  yet  fully  developed.  She  did 
not  bear  the  slightest  resemblance  to  her  brother. 

"  Will  you  drop  in  and  make  us  a  call?  "—said 
Gagin  to  me.—"  I  think  we  have  gazed  our  fill 
at  the  Germans.  Our  fellows,  it  is  true,  would 
have  smashed  the  glasses  and  broken  the  chairs, 
but  these  men  are  more  discreet.  Shall  we  go 
home— what  thinkest  thou,  Asya?  " 

The  young  girl  nodded  assent. 

"  We  are  hving  out  of  town,"— went  on  Gagin, 
"  in  a  vineyard,  in  an  isolated  house,  high  up.  We 
have  a  splendid  site,  as  you  will  see.  The  land- 
lady has  promised  to  prepare  some  sour  milk  for 
us.  But  it  will  soon  be  dark  now,  and  it  will  be 
better  for  you  to  cross  the  Rhine  by  moonhght" 

248 


ASYA 

We  set  out.  Through  the  small  gates  of  the 
town  (an  ancient  wall  of  cobble-stones  sur- 
rounded it  on  all  sides,  and  even  the  embrasures 
had  not  yet  entirely  gone  to  ruin)  we  emerged 
into  the  open  country,  and,  proceeding  for  a  hun- 
dred paces  along  the  stone  rampart,  halted  before 
a  narrow  wicket-gate.  Gagin  opened  it  and  led 
us  up  the  hill  by  a  steep  path.  Grape-vines  grew 
on  both  sides,  on  terraces;  the  sun  had  just  set, 
and  a  thin  scarlet  light  lay  on  the  vines,  on  the  tall 
stakes,  on  the  dry  earth  thickly  besprinkled  with 
large  and  small  flag-stones,  and  on  the  white  walls 
of  a  small  house,  with  black,  sagging  joists  and 
four  bright  little  windows,  which  stood  on  the 
very  apex  of  the  hill  up  which  we  were  climbing. 

"Here  's  our  dwelling!  "—exclaimed  Gagin, 
as  soon  as  we  began  to  approach  the  house;— 
"  and  yonder  is  the  landlady  bringing  the  milk. 
Guten  Abend,  Madame!  ....  We '11  set  to  eat- 
ing immediately;  but  first,"— he  added,— "  look 
around  you  ....  What  do  you  think  of  the 
viewf 

The  view  really  was  magnificent.  The  Rhine 
lay  before  us,  between  green  banks;  in  one  place 
it  was  flaming  with  the  crimson  hues  of  the  sun- 
set. The  little  town,  nestling  close  against  the 
shore,  displayed  all  its  houses  and  streets ;  hills  and 
fields  spread  out  widely  in  all  directions.  Down 
below  it  had  been  good,  but  up  aloft  it  was  still 
better :  I  was  particularly  sti^ck  by  the  purity  and 

249 


ASYA 

depth  of  tlie  sky,  the  radiant  transparency  of  the 
air.  Cool  and  light,  it  softly  undulated  and 
surged  in  waves,  as  though  it  were  more  at  its 
ease  on  the  heights. 

"  You  have  chosen  capital  quarters," — I  said. 

"  It  was  Asya  who  found  them,"— replied  Ga- 
gin.— "  Come  now,  Asya,"— he  went  on:—"  See 
to  things.  Order  everything  to  be  served  here. 
We  will  sup  in  the  open  air.  The  music  can  be 
heard  better  here.  Have  you  noticed,"— he 
added,  turning  to  me,—"  that  some  waltzes  are 
good  for  nothing  when  heard  close  to? — the 
sounds  are  insipid,  harsh — while  at  a  distance, 
they  are  splendid !  they  fairly  set  all  the  romantic 
chords  in  you  to  vibrating." 

Asya  (her  name  was  really  Anna,  but  Gagin 
called  her  Asya,  and  therefore  you  must  permit 
me  to  do  the  same)— Asya  withdrew  into  the 
house,  and  speedily  returned  in  company  with  the 
landlady.  They  carried  between  them  a  large 
tray  with  a  pot  of  milk,  spoons,  sugar,  berries, 
and  bread.  We  sat  down  and  began  our  supper. 
Asya  removed  her  hat;  her  black  hair,  cut  short 
and  brushed  like  that  of  a  boy,  fell  in  large  rings 
on  her  neck  and  ears.  At  first  she  was  shy  of  me ; 
but  Gagin  said  to  her: 

"Asya,  have  done  with  thy  shrinking!  He 
does  n't  bite !  " 

She  smiled  and,  a  little  while  afterward,  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  me  of  her  own  ac- 

250 


ASYA 

cord.  I  have  never  seen  a  more  restless  being. 
She  did  not  sit  still  for  a  single  moment;  she 
kept  rising,  running  into  the  house,  and  running 
back  to  us  again.  She  would  begin  to  hum  in  a 
low  voice,  frequently  broke  out  laughing,  and 
that  in  a  very  strange  manner:— it  seemed  as 
though  she  were  laughing  not  at  what  she  heard, 
but  at  various  thoughts  which  came  into  her  head. 
Her  large  eyes  had  a  bright,  direct,  bold  gaze, 
but  sometimes  her  eyelids  contracted  slightly,  and 
then  her  glance  suddenly  became  deep  and  tender. 
We  chatted  for  a  couple  of  hours.  Day  had 
long  since  vanished,  and  evening,— first  all  fiery, 
then  clear  and  scarlet,  then  pale  and  confused,— 
had  quietly  melted  and  merged  into  night;  and 
still  our  conversation  continued,  peaceful  and 
gentle  as  the  air  which  surrounded  us.  Gagin 
ordered  a  bottle  of  Rhine  wine  to  be  brought ;  we 
quaffed  it,  without  haste.  The  music,  as  before, 
floated  up  to  us;  its  sounds  seemed  sweeter  and 
more  tender;  the  lights  had  kindled  in  the  town 
and  on  the  river.  Suddenly  Asya  lowered  her 
head,  so  that  her  curls  fell  into  her  eyes,  became 
silent,  heaved  a  sigh,  and  then  said  to  us  that  she 
was  sleepy,  and  went  away  to  the  house.  But 
I  saw  that,  without  lighting  a  candle,  she  stood 
for  a  long  time  at  the  unopened  window.  At  last 
the  moon  rose  and  played  on  the  Rhine;  every- 
thing grew  bright,  darkened,  changed,  even  the 
wine  in  our  facetted  glasses  began  to  glitter  with 

251 


ASYA 

a  mysterious  gleam.  The  wind  subsided,  as 
though  it  had  folded  its  wings,  and  died  out; 
perfumed,  nocturnal  warmth  was  exhaled  from 
the  earth. 

"  'T  is  time  for  me  to  go!"— I  exclaimed:— 
"  otherwise  I  shall  probably  find  no  one  to  ferry 


me  over." 


"  It  is  time,"— repeated  Gagin. 

We  descended  along  the  path.  The  stones  be- 
hind us  suddenly  began  to  clatter;  it  was  Asya 
pursuing  us. 

"Art  thou  not  asleep?"— her  brother  asked 
her;  but  she,  without  answering  him  a  word,  ran 
past  us.  The  last  dying  fire-pots  lighted  by  the 
students  in  the  garden  of  the  inn  illuminated 
the  under  side  of  the  foliage  on  the  trees,  which 
imparted  to  it  a  festive  and  fantastic  aspect. 
We  found  Asya  on  the  shore;  she  was  chatting 
with  a  wherryman.  I  sprang  into  the  boat  and 
took  leave  of  my  new  friends.  Gagin  promised 
to  make  me  a  visit  on  the  following  day ;  I  shook 
hands  with  him,  and  offered  my  hand  to  Asya; 
but  she  merely  gazed  at  me  and  shook  her  head. 
The  boat  jfloated  off  and  glided  over  the  swift 
river.  The  wherryman,  a  brisk  old  fellow, 
dipped  his  oars  with  tense  effort  into  the  dark 
water. 

"  You  have  entered  the  shaft  of  moonlight,  you 
have  broken  it  up,"— Asya  shouted  to  me. 

252 


ASYA 

I  lowered  my  eyes ;  around  the  boat  the  waves 
rocked  darkly. 

"  Good-bye!  "—rang  out  her  voice  once 
more. 

"  Until  to-morrow,"— said  Gagin,  after  her. 

The  boat  made  its  landing.  I  got  out  and 
glanced  around  me.  No  one  was  any  longer 
visible  on  the  opposite  shore.  The  shaft  of  moon- 
light stretched  in  a  golden  bridge  across  the  en- 
tire width  of  the  river.  As  though  by  way  of 
farewell,  the  sounds  of  an  old  Lanner  waltz 
hurtled  over.  Gagin  was  right:  I  felt  that  all 
my  heart-strings  were  vibrating  in  response  to 
those  challenging  strains.  I  wended  my  way 
home  through  the  darkening  fields,  slowly  in- 
haling the  fragrant  air,  and  reached  my  little 
chamber  all  softened  by  the  sweet  languor  of 
random  and  limitless  expectancy.  I  felt  happy. 
.  .  .  But  why  was  I  happy?  I  desired  no- 
thing, I  was  thinking  of  nothing.  ...  I  was 
happy. 

Almost  laughing  aloud  with  the  exuberance 
of  pleasant  and  vivacious  emotions,  I  dived  head- 
long into  bed,  and  was  on  the  point  of  closing 
my  eyes,  when  suddenly  it  occurred  to  me  that 
not  once  during  the  whole  course  of  the  evening 
had  I  called  to  mind  my  cruel  beauty.  ..."  But 
what  does  it  mean?  " — I  asked  myself: — "  Can  it 
be  that  I  am  in  love?"     But  without  furnish- 

253 


ASYA 

ing  myself  with  an  answer  to  this  question,  I 
apparently  fell  asleep  on  the  instant,  like  a  baby 
in  its  cradle. 

Ill 

On  the  following  morning  (I  was  already  awake, 
but  had  not  yet  risen),  a  knock  resounded  under 
my  window,  and  a  voice,  which  I  immediately  rec- 
ognised as  the  voice  of  Gagin,  struck  up : 

*'  Sleepest  thou?  With  my  guitar 
I  will  awaken  thee.  .  .  .  "" 

I  made  haste  to  open  the  door  for  him. 

"  Good  morning,"— said  Gagin,  as  he  entered: 
— "I  have  disturbed  you  rather  early,  but  just  see 
what  a  morning  it  is.  See  the  freshness,  the  dew ; 
and  the  larks  are  singing.  ..." 

With  his  gleaming,  curly  hair,  his  bared  neck 
and  rosy  cheeks,  he  himself  was  as  fresh  as  the 
morning. 

I  dressed  myself;  we  went  out  into  the  little 
garden,  ordered  coffee  to  be  brought  out  to  us, 
and  began  to  chat.  Gagin  communicated  to  me  his 
plans  for  the  future :  being  in  possession  of  a  com- 
fortable property,  and  dependent  upon  no  one, 
he  was  desirous  of  devoting  himself  to  painting, 
and  only  regretted  that  he  had  become  sensible 
rather  late  in  the  day,  and  had  wasted  a  great  deal 
of  time  in  vain.    I  also  mentioned  my  intentions ; 

254 


ASYA 

yes,  and  by  the  way,  I  confided  to  him  the  secret  of 
my  unhappy  love.  He  listened  to  me  with  conde- 
scension but,  so  far  as  I  was  able  to  perceive, 
I  did  not  arouse  in  him  any  strong  sympathy  for 
my  passion.  After  heaving  a  couple  of  sighs  in 
imitation  of  me,  out  of  politeness,  Gagin  pro- 
posed that  we  should  go  to  his  rooms  and  inspect 
his  sketches.     I  immediately  consented. 

We  did  not  find  Asya.  According  to  the  land- 
lady's words,  she  had  gone  to  "  the  ruin."  A 
couple  of  versts  from  the  town  of  L.  there  ex- 
isted the  remains  of  a  feudal  castle.  Gagin 
opened  all  his  portfolios  for  me.  There  was  a 
great  deal  of  life  and  truth  in  his  studies,  some- 
thing free  and  broad;  but  not  a  single  one  of 
them  was  finished,  and  the  drawing  seemed  to  me 
to  be  slovenly  and  inaccurate.  I  frankly  ex- 
pressed my  opinion  to  him. 

"  Yes,  yes," — he  chimed  in  with  a  sigh, — *'  you 
are  right;  all  this  is  very  bad  and  immature,  but 
what  help  is  there  for  it?  I  have  not  studied 
as  I  should  have  done,  and  that  cursed  Slavonic 
laxity  is  asserting  itself.  When  one  dreams  of 
work,  he  soars  like  an  eagle;  it  seems  as  though 
he  could  move  the  earth  from  its  place ;  but  in  the 
execution  he  immediately  grows  slack  and 
weary." 

I  tried  to  encourage  him,  but  he  waved  his  hand 
in  despair,  and  collecting  all  his  portfolios  in  his 
arms,  he  flung  them  on  the  divan. 

255 


ASYA 

"If  my  patience  holds  out,  I  shall  make  some- 
thing of  myself,"— he  muttered  through  his 
teeth:— "if  it  does  n't  hold  out,  I  shall  remain 
a  hobbledehoy  ^  of  the  gentry  class.  We  had 
better  go  and  look  up  Asya." 

We  went. 

IV 

The  road  to  the  ruin  wound  down  a  narrow  de- 
clivity to  a  wooded  valley ;  at  the  bottom  of  it  ran 
a  brook  purling  noisily  among  stones,  as  though 
in  haste  to  merge  itself  with  the  great  river  which 
gleamed  calmly  beyond  the  dark  border  of 
sharply-serrated  mountain  crests.  Gagin  called 
my  attention  to  several  happily  illuminated  spots ; 
in  his  words  was  audible,  if  not  the  painter,  yet 
certainly  the  artist.  The  ruin  soon  came  in  sight. 
On  the  very  apex  of  a  bare  cliff  rose  a  four- 
cornered  tower,  all  black,  still  strong,  but  cleft, 
as  it  were,  with  a  long  rent.  Mossy  walls  joined 
the  tower ;  here  and  there  ivy  was  clinging ;  small, 
distorted  trees  hung  from  the  grey  battlements 
and  crumbling  arches.  A  stony  path  led  to  the 
gate,  which  was  still  intact.  We  were  already 
approaching  it,  when  suddenly  a  woman's  figure 
flitted  in  front  of  us,  ran  swiftly  over  the  heap 
of  fragments,  and  placed  itself  on  a  projection 
of  the  wall  directly  over  the  chasm. 

1  An  allusion  to  Von  Vizin's  famous  comedy,  "The 
Hobbledehoy. ' ' — Trakslatok. 

256 


ASYA 

"That  certainly  is  Asya!  "—exclaimed  Ga- 
gin : — "  What  a  mad -woman  I  " 

We  entered  the  gate  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
small  courtyard,  half  overgrown  with  wild  ap- 
ple-trees and  nettles.  On  the  projection  sat 
Asya,  in  effect.  She  turned  her  face  toward  us 
and  began  to  laugh,  but  did  not  stir  from  the 
spot.  Gagin  shook  his  finger  at  her,  while  I 
loudly  reproached  her  for  her  imprudence. 

"  Stop,"— said  Gagin  to  me:—"  don't  irritate 
her ;  you  do  not  know  her :  she  is  quite  capable  of 
climbing  the  tower.  But  here,  you  had  better 
wonder  at  the  intelligence  of  the  local  inhabi- 
tants." 

I  looked  about  me.  In  one  corner,  sheltering 
herself  in  a  tiny  wooden  shed,  an  old  woman  was 
engaged  in  knitting  a  stocking,  and  darting  side- 
long glances  at  us  through  her  spectacles.  She 
sold  beer,  gingerbread,  and  seltzer  water  to  tour- 
ists. We  placed  ourselves  on  a  bench,  and  began 
to  drink  tolerably  cool  beer  out  of  heavy,  pewter 
mugs.  Asya  continued  to  sit  motionless,  with  her 
feet  tucked  up  under  her,  and  her  head  enveloped 
in  a  musHn  scarf;  her  graceful  figure  was  dis- 
tinctly and  beautifully  outlined  against  the  clear 
sky;  but  I  surveyed  her  with  an  unpleasant  sen- 
sation. On  the  preceding  evening  I  had  noticed 
something  constrained,  not  quite  natural,  about 
her.  ..."  She  wants  to  astonish  us," — I  thought; 
"to  what  end?     What  childish  prank  is  this?" 

257 


ASYA 

As  though  divining  my  thoughts,  she  suddenly 
flung  a  swift,  piercing  glance  at  me,  broke  out 
laughing  again,  and  with  two  skips  leaped  from 
the  wall,  and  running  up  to  the  old  woman, 
asked  her  for  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Dost  thou  think  that  I  want  to  drink?  "—she 
said,  addressing  her  brother. — "No;  there  are 
flowers  on  the  wall  yonder,  which  positively  must 
be  watered." 

Gagin  made  her  no  reply;  and  she,  glass  in 
hand,  went  scrambling  over  the  ruins,  now  and 
then  halting,  bending  down  and,  with  amusing 
importance,  sprinkling  a  few  drops  of  water, 
which  glittered  brightly  in  the  sunlight.  Her 
movements  were  extremely  charming,  but,  as  be- 
fore, I  felt  vexed  with  her,  although  I  involun- 
tarily admired  her  lightness  and  agility.  At  one 
dangerous  spot  she  intentionally  shrieked  aloud, 
and  then  screamed  with  laughter.  ...  I  was 
more  vexed  than  ever. 

"Why,  she  climbs  like  a  goat,"— muttered  the 
old  woman,  tearing  herself  for  a  moment  from 
her  stocking. 

At  last  Asya  entirely  emptied  her  glass,  and, 
swaying  in  frolicsome  wise,  she  returned  to  us. 
A  strange  smile  slightly  contracted  her  brows, 
nostrils,  and  lips;  half -audaciously,  half -merrily 
did  the  dark  eyes  narrow  their  lids. 

"You  consider  my  behaviour  improper,"— her 

258 


ASYA 

face  seemed  to  say: — "  I  don't  care:  I  know  that 
you  are  admiring  me." 

"  Clever,  Asya,  clever," — said  Gagin,  in  an 
undertone. 

She  seemed  suddenly  seized  with  shame, 
dropped  her  long  eyelashes,  and  seated  herself 
modestly  beside  us,  like  a  culprit.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  did  I  get  a  thoroughly  good  look  at  her 
face,  the  most  variable  face  which  I  had  ever 
beheld.  A  few  moments  later  it  had  turned  pale, 
and  assumed  a  concentrated,  almost  melancholy 
expression ;  her  very  features  seemed  to  me  larger, 
more  severe,  more  simple.  She  had  completely 
quieted  down.  We  made  the  circuit  of  the  ruin 
(Asya  followed  behind  us)  and  admired  the 
views.  In  the  meantime  the  hour  for  dinner  was 
drawing  near.  On  settling  with  the  old  woman, 
Gagin  asked  for  another  tankard  of  beer,  and 
turning  to  me,  exclaimed  with  a  sly  grimace: 

"  To  the  health  of  the  lady  of  your  heart!  " 

"  And  has  he, — have  you  such  a  lady?  " — Asya 
suddenly  inquired. 

"  Why,  who  has  not?  "—retorted  Gagin. 

Asya  became  pensive  for  a  moment ;  again  her 
face  underwent  a  change;  again  there  made  its 
appearance  upon  it  a  challenging,  almost  auda- 
cious smile. 

On  the  way  home  she  laughed  and  frolicked 
worse  than  ever.     She  broke  off  a  long  branch, 

259 


ASYA 

laid  it  on  her  shoulders  like  a  gun,  and  bound 
her  scarf  around  her  head.  I  remember  that  we 
met  a  numerous  family  of  fair-haired  and  af- 
fected English  people;  all  of  them,  as  though  at 
the  word  of  command,  stared  after  Asya  in  frigid 
amazement  with  their  glassy  eyes,  while  she,  as 
though  to  spite  them,  began  to  sing  loudly.  On 
reaching  home,  she  immediately  went  off  to  her 
room,  and  only  made  her  appearance  at  dinner, 
arrayed  in  her  best  gown,  with  her  hair  carefully 
arranged,  her  bodice  tightly  laced,  and  in  gloves. 
At  table  she  bore  herself  in  very  decorous  manner, 
almost  aifectedly,  barely  tasted  the  viands,  and 
drank  water  out  of  a  wine-glass.  She  evidently 
wished  to  play  a  new  part  before  me — the  part  of 
a  decorous  and  well-bred  young  lady.  Gagin  did 
not  interfere  with  her ;  it  was  obvious  that  he  had 
got  used  to  backing  her  up  in  everything.  He 
merely  cast  a  good-humoured  glance  at  me  from 
time  to  time,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightlj^ 
as  much  as  to  say: — "  She  is  a  child,  be  lenient." 
The  moment  dinner  was  over,  Asya  rose,  made 
a  curtsey  and,  donning  her  hat,  asked  Gagin 
whether  she  might  go  to  Frau  Luise. 

"  Hast  thou  long  been  in  the  habit  of  asking 
permission?" — he  replied  with  his  invariable,  on 
this  occasion  somewhat  troubled,  smile: — "Dost 
thou  find  it  tiresome  with  us?  " 

"No;  but  I  promised  Frau  Luise  yesterday 
to  go  to  her;  and,  besides,  I  thought  you  would 

260 


ASYA 

be  better  off  alone  together;  Mr.  N."  (she  pointed 
at  me)  "  will  tell  thee  something  more." 

She  departed. 

"  Frau  Luise,"— began  Gagin,  endeavouring 
to  avoid  my  eye, — "  is  the  widow  of  a  former 
burgomaster  here,  a  kind-hearted  but  frivolous 
woman.  She  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Asya. 
Asya  has  a  passion  for  getting  acquainted  with 
people  from  a  lower  class.  I  have  observed  that 
the  cause  of  that  is  always  vanity.  I  have  spoiled 
her  pretty  thoroughly,  as  you  see,"— he  added, 
after  a  brief  pause: — "  and  what  would  you  have 
me  do?  I  don't  know  how  to  be  stern  with  any 
one,  least  of  all  with  her.  I  am  bound  to  be  in- 
dulgent to  her." 

I  held  my  peace.  Gagin  changed  the  subject. 
The  better  I  knew  him  the  more  strongly  was  I 
drawn  to  him.  I  soon  understood  him.  He  was 
a  regular  Russian  soul,  upright,  honourable,  sim- 
ple, but,  unhappily,  somewhat  languid,  without 
tenacity  or  inward  ardour.  Youth  did  not  bub- 
ble up  in  him  like  a  spring;  it  beamed  with  a 
tranquil  hght.  He  was  very  charming  and  clever, 
but  I  could  not  imagine  to  myself  what  would 
become  of  him  as  soon  as  he  became  a  man.  Be 
an  artist?  ....  One  cannot  be  an  artist  without 
bitter,  incessant  toil  .  .  .  .  "  and  toil,"  I  thought, 
as  I  looked  at  his  soft  features,  and  listened  to 
his  indolent  speech,—"  no!  Thou  wilt  never  toil, 
thou  wilt  not  be  capable  of  concentrating  thy- 

261 


ASYA 

self."  But  not  to  love  him  was  an  impossibility; 
one's  heart  was  fairly  drawn  to  him.  We  spent 
four  hours  together,  now  seated  on  the  divan, 
again  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  in  front  of  the 
house;  and  in  the  course  of  those  four  hours  we 
definitively  struck  up  a  friendship. 

The  sun  set,  and  it  was  time  for  me  to  go  home- 
'Asya  had  not  yet  returned. 

*'  What  a  wilful  creature  she  is!  "—said  Gagin. 
— *'  I  will  accompany  you,  shall  I?  We  '11  drop 
in  at  Frau  Luise's  on  the  way,  and  I  will  inquire 
if  she  is  there.    It  is  not  much  out  of  our  road." 

We  descended  to  the  town  and,  turning  into  a 
narrow,  crooked  alley,  halted  in  front  of  a  house 
two  windows  in  breadth  and  four  stories  high. 
The  second  story  projected  over  the  street  more 
than  the  first,  the  third  and  fourth  projected  more 
than  the  second ;  the  whole  house,  with  its  ancient 
carving,  its  two  thick  pillars  below,  its  pointed 
roof  of  tiles,  and  elongated  spout,  in  the  shape 
of  a  beak  on  the  garret,  seemed  like  a  huge, 
crouching  bird. 

"  Asya!  "  —  shouted  Gagin;  —  "  Art  thou 
here?" 

A  tiny  illuminated  window  in  the  third  story 
opened,  and  we  beheld  Asya's  little,  dark  head. 
The  toothless  and  purblind  face  of  an  old  Ger- 
man woman  peeped  forth  from  behind  her. 

"  I  'm  here,"— said  Asya,  coquettishly  prop- 
ping her  elbows  on  the  window-sill.    "  I  'm  com- 

262 


ASYA 

fortable  here.  There,  take  that,"— she  added, 
tossing  a  spray  of  geranium  to  Gagin. — "  Im- 
agine that  I  am  the  lady  of  thy  heart." 

Frau  Luise  laughed. 

"  N.  is  going  away,"— returned  Gagin:—"  he 
wants  to  bid  thee  farewell." 

"  Really?  "—said  Asya:— "  In  that  case,  give 
him  my  spray,  and  I  '11  return  at  once." 

She  clapped  to  the  window  and,  apparently, 
kissed  Frau  Luise.  Gagin  silently  held  out  the 
spray  to  me.  I  silently  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
walked  to  the  ferry  and  crossed  to  the  other  side. 

I  remember  that  I  was  walking  home  think- 
ing of  nothing,  but  with  a  strange  weight  on  my 
heart,  when  suddenly  a  powerful,  famihar  scent, 
but  one  which  is  rare  in  Germany,  arrested  my 
attention.  I  came  to  a  standstill,  and  beheld  by 
the  side  of  the  road  a  small  bed  of  hemp.  Its 
fragrance  of  the  steppes  had  instantaneously  re- 
minded me  of  my  native  land  and  aroused  in  my 
soul  a  passionate  longing  for  it.  I  wanted  to 
breathe  the  Russian  air,  to  walk  on  Russian  soil. 
"  What  am  I  doing  here,  why  am  I  dawdling  in 
foreign  lands,  among  strangers?"  I  exclaimed; 
the  deadly  burden,  which  I  had  felt  at  my  heart, 
was  suddenly  merged,  in  bitter,  burning  emotion. 
I  reached  home  in  an  entirely  different  mood 
from  that  of  the  day  before.  I  felt  almost  in- 
censed, and  for  a  long  time  could  not  recover 
my  composure.     An  irritation  which  I  myself 

263 


ASYA 

found  incomprehensible  was  rending  me  asunder. 
At  last  I  sat  down,  and  calling  to  mind  my  crafty 
widow  (each  one  of  my  days  wound  up  with 
an  official  calhng  to  mind  of  that  lady),  I  got 
out  one  of  her  notes.  But  I  did  not  even  open 
it;  my  thoughts  immediately  took  another  direc- 
tion. I  began  to  think  ....  to  think  of  Asya. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  Gagin,  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation,  had  hinted  to  me  at  some  difficulties, 
some  impediments  to  his  return  to  Russia.  .  .  . 
"  Is  she  really  his  sister? "  I  ejaculated  aloud. 

I  undressed,  got  into  bed,  and  tried  to  get  to 
sleep ;  but  an  hour  later  I  was  again  sitting  on  my 
bed,  and  again  thinking  about  that  "  capricious 
little  girl  with  the  strained  laugh."  .  .  .  .  "  She 
is  formed  like  the  httle  Galatea  by  Raphael,  in 
the  Farnese  gallery,"— I  whispered:— "  yes,  and 
she  is  not  his  sister.  ..." 

And  the  widow's  note  lay  quite  quietly  on  the 
floor,  gleaming  whitely  in  the  rays  of  the  moon. 


V 

On  the  following  morning  I  again  went  to  L. 
I  assured  myself  that  I  wanted  to  meet  Gagin; 
but  I  was  secretly  longing  to  see  what  Asya  would 
do,— whether  she  would  "  play  tricks,"  as  on  the 
day  before.  I  found  them  both  in  the  parlour, 
and,  strange  to  say— perhaps  because  I  had  been 

264. 


ASYA 

thinking  a  great  deal  about  Russia  dui'ing  the 
night  and  morning — Asya  seemed  to  me  to  be  a 
thorough  Russian  girl,  and  a  low-class  girl,  al- 
most a  chambermaid,  at  that.  She  wore  a  poor 
little  old  gown,  had  brushed  her  hair  behind  her 
ears,  and  sat  immovably  at  the  window,  em- 
broidering at  a  frame,  modestly,  quietly,  as 
though  she  had  never  done  anything  else  in  all 
her  hfe.  She  said  hardly  anything,  gazed  calmly 
at  her  work,  and  her  features  had  assumed  such 
an  insignificant,  every-day  expression,  that  I  was 
involuntarily  reminded  of  our  home-bred  Katyas 
and  Mashas.  To  complete  the  likeness,  she  be- 
gan to  sing  in  an  undertone:  "  Mother  dear,  be- 
loved one."  I  glanced  at  her  sallow,  extinguished 
little  face,  recalled  my  musings  of  the  night  be- 
fore, and  felt  sorry  for  something.  The  weather 
was  magnificent.  Gagin  announced  to  us  that 
he  was  going  that  day  to  make  a  sketch  from 
nature;  I  asked  him  if  he  would  allow  me  to  ac- 
company him,  whether  I  should  be  in  his  way. 

"On  the  contrary,"— he  replied:— "  you  may 
be  able  to  give  me  some  good  advice." 

He  donned  a  round  hat,  a  la  Van  Dyck,  and  a 
blouse,  took  a  portfolio  under  his  arm,  and  set 
out ;  I  ambled  after  him.  Asya  remained  at  home. 
Gagin,  as  he  was  departing,  asked  her  to  see  that 
the  soup  was  not  too  thin:  Asya  promised  to 
visit  the  kitchen.  Gagin  made  his  way  to  the 
valley   with   which    I    was    already   acquainted, 

265 


ASYA 

seated  himself  on  a  stone,  and  began  to  sketch 
an  aged,  hollow  oak,  with  widely-spreading  roots. 
I  threw  myself  down  on  the  grass,  and  pulled 
out  a  book;  but  I  did  not  read  two  pages,  and 
he  merely  daubed  his  paper;  we  spent  the  time 
chiefly  in  argument;  and,  so  far  as  I  can  judge, 
we  argued  with  considerable  cleverness  and  pene- 
tration, as  to  the  precise  way  in  which  one  should 
work,  what  should  be  avoided,  what  rules  should 
be  observed,  and  precisely  what  is  the  significance 
of  art  in  our  age.  Gagin  decided  at  last  that  he 
"  was  not  in  the  mood  to-day,"  lay  down  beside 
me,  and  then  our  youthful  speeches  began  to  flow 
freely, — now  fervid,  now  thoughtful,  now  rap- 
turous, but  almost  always  the  obscure  speeches 
wherein  the  Russian  man  is  so  fond  of  pouring 
himself  out.  After  having  talked  to  satiety,  and 
filled  with  a  sense  of  contentment,  we  returned 
home.  I  found  Asya  precisely  the  same  as  I  had 
left  her ;  try  as  I  would  to  watch  her,  not  a  shade 
of  coquetry,  not  a  sign  of  a  deliberately-assumed 
role  did  I  detect  in  her;  on  this  occasion,  it  was 
impossible  to  accuse  her  of  lack  of  naturalness. 

"  A-ha!  "— said  Gagin:— "  She  has  imposed 
fasting  and  penance  upon  herself!  " 

Toward  evening  she  yawned  several  times  un- 
affectedly, and  went  oiF  early  to  her  own  room. 
I  soon  took  leave  of  Gagin,  and  on  my  way  home, 
I  no  longer  meditated  about  anything:  that  day 
had  passed  in  sober  sensations.  I  remember,  how- 

266 


ASYA 

ever,  that  as  I  got  into  bed  I  involuntarily  said 
aloud : 

"What  a  chameleon  that  young  girl  is!" — 
And  after  reflecting  a  while  I  added: — "And 
all  the  same,  she  is  not  his  sister." 


VI 

Two  whole  weeks  passed.  I  visited  the  Gagins 
every  day.  Asya  seemed  to  shun  me  but  no  longer 
indulged  in  a  single  one  of  the  pranks  which  had 
so  astounded  me  during  the  first  days  of  our 
acquaintance.  She  appeared  to  be  secretly  em- 
bittered or  discomfited;  she  laughed  less.  I 
watched  her  with  curiosity. 

She  spoke  French  and  German  fairly  well ;  but 
in  everything  it  was  apparent  that  she  had  been 
in  feminine  hands  since  her  infancy,  and  had  re- 
ceived a  strange,  an  unusual  bringing-up,  which 
had  nothing  in  common  with  the  breeding  of  Ga- 
gin.  Despite  his  hat  a  la  Van  Dyck,  and  his 
blouse,  he  exhaled  the  soft,  half -enervated  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Great  Russian  nobleman,  but  she  did 
not  resemble  a  young  lady  of  noble  birth;  in  all 
her  movements  there  was  something  uneasy;  she 
was  a  wild  tree  which  had  only  recently  been 
grafted;  she  was  wine  still  in  the  process  of  fer- 
mentation. By  nature  shy  and  timid,  she  was 
vexed  at  her  own  bashfulness,  and  with  irritation 

267 


ASYA 

she  made  desperate  eiforts  to  be  bold  and  at  her 
ease,  in  which  she  was  not  always  successful. 
Several  times  I  began  to  talk  to  her  about  her 
life  in  Russia,  about  her  past;  she  answered  my 
queries  reluctantly.  I  learned,  however,  that  for 
a  long  time  before  her  departure  abroad,  she 
had  lived  in  the  country.  I  once  caught  her  alone, 
over  a  book.  With  her  head  resting  on  both 
hands  and  her  fingers  deeply  buried  in  her  hair, 
she  was  devouring  the  lines  with  her  eyes. 

"Bravo!" — I  said,  stepping  up  to  her: 
—"How  diligent  you  are!" 

She  raised  her  head  with  dignity  and  gazed 
sternly  at  me. 

"  You  think  that  I  know  how  to  do  nothing  but 
laugh,"— she  said,  and  started  to  leave  the 
room.  .  . 

I  glanced  at  the  title  of  the  book;  it  was  some 
French  romance  or  other. 

"  But  I  cannot  commend  your  choice,"— I  re- 
marked. 

"  'T  is  reading  all  the  same!  "—she  exclaimed; 
and  flinging  the  book  on  the  table,  she  added:— 
"  I  had  better  go  and  play  the  fool,"— and  ran 
off  into  the  garden. 

That  same  day,  in  the  evening,  I  was  reading 
to  Gagin  "  Herman  and  Dorothea."  At  first 
Asya  only  darted  past  us,  then  suddenly  she  came 
to  a  halt,  lent  an  ear,  quietly  sat  down  beside 
me,  and  listened  to  the  reading  to  the  end.    On 

268 


ASYA 

the  following  day  I  again  failed  to  recognise 
her,  until  I  guessed  what  had  suddenly  got  into 
her  head:  to  be  domestic  and  sedate,  like  Doro- 
thea. In  a  word,  she  was  to  me  a  semi-enigmat- 
ical being.  Vain  to  the  last  degree,  she  attracted 
me  even  when  I  was  angry  with  her.  Of  one 
thing  only  I  became  more  and  more  convinced, 
namely,  that  she  was  not  Gagin's  sister.  He  did 
not  treat  her  in  brotherly  fashion;  he  was  too 
affectionate,  too  lenient,  and  at  the  same  time, 
rather  constrained. 

A  strange  circumstance,  apparently,  confirmed 
my  suspicions. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  approaching  the  vine- 
yard, where  the  Gagins  lived,  I  found  the  gate 
locked.  Without  thinking  long  about  the  mat- 
ter, I  made  my  way  to  a  breach  in  the  fence, 
which  I  had  previously  noted,  and  leaped  over  it. 
Not  far  from  that  spot,  on  one  side  of  the  path, 
stood  a  small  acacia  arbour.  I  came  on  a  level 
with  it,  and  was  on  the  point  of  passing  it  ...  . 
when  suddenly  Asya's  voice  struck  my  ear,  utter- 
ing the  following  words  with  heat  and  through 
tears : 

"  No;  I  won't  love  anybody  except  thee,  no,  no, 
I  will  love  only  thee — and  forever." 

"  Stop,  Asya,  calm  thyself," — said  Gagin: — 
"  thou  knowest  that  I  believe  thee." 

Their  voices  resounded  in  the  arbour.  I  caught 
a  sight  of  both  of  them  through  the  interlacing 

269 


ASYA 

branches  which  were  not  thick.  They  did  not 
notice  me. 

"  Thee,  thee  alone,"— she  repeated,  throwing 
herself  on  his  neck,  and  beginning  to  kiss  him 
with  convulsive  sobs,  and  to  press  herself  to  his 
breast. 

"  Enough,  enough,"— he  repeated,  passing  his 
hand  lightly  over  her  hair. 

For  several  moments  I  stood  motionless.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  I  started. — "  Shall  I  go  to  them?  .  .  . 
On  no  account!" — flashed  through  my  mind. 
With  swift  strides  I  returned  to  the  fence,  sprang 
over  it  into  the  road,  and  set  off  homeward  almost 
on  a  run,  I  smiled,  rubbed  my  hands,  marvelled 
at  the  accident  which  had  suddenly  confirmed  my 
surmises  (not  for  one  moment  did  I  doubt  their 
correctness),  and,  yet  I  felt  very  bitter  at  heart. 
"  How  well  they  understand  how  to  dissimu- 
late! "  I  thought.  "  But  with  what  object?  What 
possesses  them  to  mystify  me?  I  had  not  ex- 
pected that  from  him.  .  .  .  And  what  a  senti- 
mental explanation ! " 

VII 

I  SLEPT  badly,  and  rose  early  the  next  morning, 
strapped  my  travelling  wallet  to  my  back,  and, 
having  informed  my  landlady  that  she  need  not 
expect  me  back  for  the  night,  I  set  off  on  foot  for 
the  mountains,  up  the  little  river,  on  which  Z. 

270 


ASYA 

lies.  These  mountains,  a  spur  of  the  chain  called 
The  Dog's  Back  (Hundsriick),  are  very  curious 
from  a  geological  point  of  view;  they  are  espe- 
cially noteworthy  for  the  regularity  and  purity 
of  the  basaltic  layers;  but  I  was  in  no  mood  for 
geological  observations.  I  could  not  account  to 
myself  for  what  was  in  progress  within  me;  one 
feeling  was  clear  to  me:  a  disinclination  to  meet 
the  Gagins.  I  assured  myself  that  the  sole  cause 
for  my  sudden  dislike  to  them  was  anger  at  their 
duplicity.  Who  had  forced  them  to  give  them- 
selves out  for  relatives?  However,  I  tried  not 
to  think  of  them ;  I  wandered,  without  haste,  over 
the  mountains  and  valleys,  I  tarried  in  village 
eating-houses,  peaceably  chatting  with  landlords 
and  patrons,  or  lay  on  a  flat,  sun-heated  stone, 
and  watched  the  clouds  sail  past ;  luckily  the  wea- 
ther was  wonderfully  fine.  In  such  occupations  I 
spent  three  days,  and  not  without  satisfaction, — 
although  my  heart  was  heavy  at  times.  The  trend 
of  my  thoughts  was  exactly  in  harmony  with  the 
calm  nature  of  that  locality. 

I  surrendered  myself  to  the  quiet  plan  of  ac- 
cident, to  chance  impressions :  succeeding  one  an- 
other without  haste,  they  flowed  through  my  soul, 
leaving  in  it  at  last  one  general  impression,  in 
which  was  merged  everything  I  had  seen,  felt, 
and  heard  during  those  three  days— everything: 
the  dehcate  odour  of  resin  in  the  forests,  the  cry 
and  pecking  of  the  wood-peckers;  the  incessant 

271 


ASYA 

babbling  of  bright  little  brooks  with  spotted  trout 
on  their  sandy  bottoms ;  the  not  too  bold  outlines 
of  the  hills ;  the  frowning  cliffs ;  clean  little  ham- 
lets with  time-honoured,  ancient  churches  and 
trees;  storks  in  the  meadow;  cosey  mills  with 
briskly-revolving  wheels ;  the  cheerful  faces  of  the 
natives,  their  blue  shirts  and  grey  stockings; 
creaking,  sluggish  wains  drawn  by  fat  horses, 
and  sometimes  by  cows ;  young,  long-haired  way- 
farers on  the  clean  roads,  planted  with  apple  and 
pear-trees.  .  .  . 

Even  now  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  recall  my 
impressions  of  that  time.  A  greeting  to  thee, 
modest  nook  of  the  German  land,  with  thy  in- 
genuous satisfaction;  with  traces  everywhere 
about  of  industrious  hands,  of  patient  though 
unhurried  toil.  ...  A  greeting  and  peace  to 
thee! 

I  reached  home  at  the  very  end  of  the  third 
day.  I  have  forgotten  to  say  that,  out  of  vexa- 
tion toward  the  Gagins,  I  had  made  an  effort  to 
resurrect  within  me  the  image  of  the  hard-hearted 
widow;— but  my  efforts  remained  fruitless.  I 
remember  that  when  I  began  to  meditate  about 
her,  I  beheld  before  me  a  little  peasant  girl,  five 
years  of  age,  with  a  round  little  face,  and  in- 
nocently protruding  eyes.  She  looked  at  me  in 
such  a  childishly-simple  way.  ...  I  felt  ashamed 
of  her  pure  gaze,  I  did  not  want  to  lie  in  her 
presence,  and  instantly,   finally,  and  forever  I 

272 


ASYA 

made  my  farewell  bow  to  the  former  object  of 
my  affections. 

At  home  I  found  a  note  from  Gagin.  He  was 
surprised  at  the  suddenness  of  my  decision,  up- 
braided me  for  not  having  taken  him  with  me, 
and  begged  me  to  come  to  them  as  soon  as  I  re- 
turned. I  read  this  note  with  displeasure,  but 
on  the  following  day  I  went  to  L. 


VIII 

Gagin  welcomed  me  in  friendly  fashion,  over- 
whelmed me  with  affectionate  reproaches;  but 
Asya,  as  though  of  deliberate  purpose,  no  sooner 
caught  sight  of  me,  than  she  burst  out  laughing 
loudly  without  any  cause  and,  according  to  her 
wont,  immediately  ran  away.  Gagin  was  dis- 
concerted, muttered  after  her  that  she  was  crazy, 
and  entreated  me  to  pardon  her.  I  confess  that 
I  had  become  greatly  incensed  at  Asya;  even 
without  that  I  was  not  feeling  like  myself,  and 
here  again  were  that  unnatural  laughter,  those 
strange  grimaces.  But  I  pretended  that  I  had 
not  noticed  anything,  and  communicated  to  Ga- 
gin the  details  of  my  little  trip.  He  narrated  to 
me  what  he  had  been  doing  in  my  absence.  But 
our  speeches  did  not  get  on  well;  Asya  entered 
the  room,  and  then  ran  out  again;  at  last  I  an- 
nounced that  I  had  some  work  which  must  be 

273 


ASYA 

done  in  haste,  and  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  re- 
turn home.  At  first  Gagin  tried  to  detain  me; 
then,  after  looking  intently  at  me,  he  offered 
to  accompany  me.  In  the  anteroom  Asya  sud- 
denly came  up  to  me  and  offered  me  her  hand; 
I  clasped  her  fingers  lightly  and  barely  bowed  to 
her.  Gagin  and  I  got  ourselves  ferried  across 
the  Rhine  and,  as  we  passed  my  favourite  ash- 
tree  with  the  little  statue  of  the  Madonna,  we  sat 
down  on  the  bench  to  admire  the  view.  There- 
upon, a  remarkable  conversation  ensued  between 
us. 

At  first  we  exchanged  a  few  words,  then  fell 
silent,  as  we  gazed  at  the  gleaming  river. 

"  Tell  me," — suddenly  began  Gagin,  with  his 
habitual  smile:  — "  what  is  your  opinion  of  Asya? 
She  must  seem  rather  queer  to  you,  does  n't  she?  " 

"  Yes," — I  replied,  not  without  some  surprise. 
I  had  not  expected  that  he  would  speak  of  her. 

"  One  must  know  her  well  in  order  to  judge 
her.  She  has  a  very  kind  heart,  but  a  wretched 
head.  It  is  difficult  to  get  along  with  her.  How- 
ever, it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  blame 
her,  if  you  knew  her  history.  .  .  ." 

"Her  history,"— I  interrupted.  ...  "Is  n't 
she  your  .  .  .  ." 

Gagin  darted  a  glance  at  me. 

"  Can  it  be  that  you  think  she  is  not  my  sister? 
....  Yes," — he  continued,  without  paying  any 
heed  to  my  confusion:—"  she  really  is  my  sister; 

274 


ASYA 

she  is  my  father's  daughter.    Hearken  to  me.    I 
feel  confidence  in  you,  and  I  will  tell  you  all. 

"  My  father  was  a  very  kind-hearted,  clever, 
cultured — and  unhappy  man.  Fate  treated  him 
no  worse  than  she  treats  many  others ;  but  he  was 
unable  to  withstand  her  first  blow.  He  married 
early,  for  love;  his  wife,  my  mother,  died  very 
soon;  she  left  me,  a  baby  of  six  months.  My 
father  carried  me  off  to  the  country,  and  for 
twelve  whole  years  never  went  anywhere.  He 
busied  himself  with  my  education,  and  would 
never  have  parted  with  me  had  not  his  brother, 
my  blood-uncle,  come  to  the  country.  This  uncle 
resided  permanently  in  Petersburg  and  occupied 
a  pretty  high  post.  He  persuaded  my  father  to 
surrender  me  into  his  hands,  as  my  father  would 
not  consent  to  leave  the  country  on  any  terms 
whatsoever.  My  uncle  represented  to  him  that 
it  was  injurious  for  a  boy  of  my  age  to  live  in 
absolute  isolation;  that  with  such  an  eternally 
melancholy  and  taciturn  preceptor  as  my  father, 
I  would  infallibly  fall  behind  the  lads  of  my  own 
age,  and  my  very  disposition  might  be  ruined  into 
the  bargain.  For  a  long  time  my  father  com- 
bated his  brother's  admonitions,  but  yielded  at 
last.  I  wept  at  parting  with  my  father;  I  loved 
him,  although  I  had  never  seen  a  smile  on  his 
face  ....  but  when  I  got  to  Petersburg  I 
speedily  forgot  our  gloomy  and  cheerless  nest. 
J    entered   the   yunkers'    school,    and    from    the 

275 


ASYA 

school  graduated  into  a  regiment  of  the  Guards. 
Every  year  I  made  a  journey  to  the  country  for 
several  weeks,  and  with  every  passing  year  I 
found  my  father  more  and  more  morose,  en- 
grossed in  himself,  and  pensive  to  the  point  of 
timidity.  He  went  to  church  every  day,  and  had 
almost  unlearned  the  art  of  speaking. 

"During  one  of  my  visits  (I  was  then  over 
twenty  years  of  age),  I  beheld  for  the  first  time 
in  our  house  a  thin,  black-eyed  Mttle  girl,  ten 
years  of  age — Asya.  My  father  said  that  she 
was  an  orphan  whom  he  had  taken  to  rear — that 
was  precisely  the  way  he  expressed  himself.  I 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  her;  she  was  shy, 
alert,  and  taciturn  as  a  little  wild  beast,  and  as 
soon  as  I  entered  my  father's  favourite  room, 
the  huge,  gloomy  chamber  where  my  mother  had 
died,  and  where  candles  were  lighted  even  in  the 
daytime,  she  immediately  hid  herself  behind  his 
Voltaire  chair,  or  behind  a  bookcase.  It  so  hap- 
pened, that  during  the  three  or  four  years  which 
followed,  the  duties  of  my  service  prevented  my 
going  to  the  country.  I  received  one  brief  letter 
from  my  father  each  month;  he  rarely  alluded 
to  Asya,  and  then  only  in  passing.  He  was  al- 
ready over  fifty,  but  he  still  seemed  a  young  man. 

"Picture  to  yourself  my  consternation:  sud- 
denly, without  a  suspicion  on  my  part,  I  received 
from  the  agent  a  letter  in  which  he  informed  me 
of  my  father's  mortal  illness,  and  entreated  me  to 

276 


ASYA 

come  as  speedily  as  possible  if  I  wished  to  bid 
him  farewell.  I  rushed  oif  at  headlong  speed, 
and  found  my  father  alive,  but  already  at  his  last 
gasp.  He  was  extreme^  delighted  to  see  me, 
embraced  me  with  his  emaciated  arms,  gazed  long 
into  my  eyes  with  a  look  which  was  not  precisely 
scrutinising  nor  yet  precisely  one  of  entreaty; 
and  after  having  exacted  from  me  a  promise  that 
I  would  fulfil  his  last  request,  he  ordered  his  old 
valet  to  bring  Asya.  The  old  man  led  her  in; 
she  could  hardly  stand  on  her  feet,  and  was 
trembling  all  over. 

Here,'— said  my  father  to  me  with  an  effort : 
— '  I  bequeath  to  thee  my  daughter — thy  sister. 
Thou  wilt  learn  all  from  YakofF,'— he  added, 
pointing  at  the  valet. 

"  Asya  burst  out  sobbing  and  fell  face  down- 
ward on  the  bed.  .  .  .  Half  an  hour  later,  my 
father  expired. 

"  This  is  what  I  learned:  Asya  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  my  father  and  of  my  mother's  former  maid, 
Tatyana.  I  vividly  remember  that  Tatyana;  I 
remember  her  tall,  graceful  figure,  her  comely, 
regular,  intelligent  face,  with  large,  dark  eyes. 
She  bore  the  reputation  of  being  a  haughty  and 
unapproachable  girl.  So  far  as  I  was  able  to 
make  out  from  Yakoff's  respectful  reticences, 
my  father  had  entered  into  relations  with  her 
several  years  after  my  mother's  death.  Tatyana 
was  no  longer  living  in  the  manor-house  at  that 

277 


ASYA 

time,  but  in  the  cottage  of  a  married  sister  of  hers, 
the  herd-woman.  My  father  became  strongly 
attached  to  her,  and  after  my  departure  from 
the  country  he  had  even  wished  to  marry  her,  but 
she  herself  had  not  consented  to  become  his  wife, 
in  spite  of  his  entreaties. 

"  '  The  late  Tatyana  Vasilievna,' — concluded 
Yakoff ,  as  he  stood  by  the  door  with  his  hands 
behind  him, — 'was  sagacious  in  everything,  and 
did  not  wish  to  disgrace  your  papa. — "  What  sort 
of  a  wife  am  I  for  him?  "  says  she.  "  What  sort 
of  a  gentlewoman  am  I?"— That  was  the  way 
she  deigned  to  speak,— and  she  said  it  in  my 
presence,  sir.' — Tatyana  was  not  even  willing  to 
remove  to  our  house,  and  continued  to  live  with 
her  sister,  along  with  Asya.  In  my  childhood 
I  had  seen  Tatyana  only  on  festival  days,  in 
church;  with  her  head  bound  up  in  a  dark  ker- 
chief, and  a  yellow  shawl  on  her  shoulders,  she 
stood  among  the  crowd  near  a  window,— her 
severe  profile  was  distinctly  defined  against  the 
light  glass, — and  prayed  with  submission  and 
dignity,  making  lowly  reverences  in  old-fash- 
ioned style.  When  my  uncle  carried  me  off, 
Asya  was  only  two  years  old,  and  in  her  ninth 
year  she  lost  her  mother. 

"As  soon  as  Tatyanadied,my  father  took  Asya 
to  himself  in  the  house.  He  had  previously  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  have  her  with  him,  but  Tatyana 
had  refused  this  also.    Imagine  to  yourself  what 

278 


ASYA 

must  have  been  Asya's  sensations  when  she  was 
taken  to  the  master.  To  this  day  she  is  unable 
to  forget  that  moment,  M^hen  they  garbed  her  for 
the  first  time  in  a  silken  frock  and  kissed  her 
hand.  Her  mother,  as  long  as  she  lived,  had 
reared  her  very  strictly;  with  her  father  she  en- 
joyed complete  freedom.  He  was  her  teacher; 
she  saw  no  one  excepting  him.  He  did  not  spoil 
her — that  is  to  say,  he  did  not  fondle  her;  but 
he  loved  her  passionately,  and  never  denied  her 
anything;  in  his  soul  he  regarded  himself  as  cul- 
pable toward  her.  Asya  speedily  grasped  the 
fact  that  she  was  the  principal  personage  in  the 
house;  she  knew  that  the  master  was  her  father; 
but  she  did  not  so  speedily  comprehend  her  false 
position;  vanity  was  strongly  developed  in  her, 
and  distrust  also;  bad  habits  became  rooted,  sim- 
plicity vanished.  She  wished  (she  herself  once 
confessed  this  to  me)  to  make  the  whole  world 
forget  her  extraction;  she  was  ashamed  of  her 
mother  and  ashamed  of  her  shame,  and  proud  of 
it.  You  see  that  she  knew  and  does  know  a  great 
deal  which  one  ought  not  to  know  at  her  age. 
....  But  is  she  to  blame?  Young  forces  had 
begun  to  ferment  in  her,  her  blood  was  seething, 
but  there  was  not  a  single  hand  near  by  to  guide 
her.  She  was  absolutely  independent  in  every- 
thing! And  is  that  easy  to  endure?  She  wanted 
to  be  not  inferior  to  other  young  ladies  of  noble 
birth ;  she  flung  herself  upon  books.    Could  any- 

279 


ASYA 

thing  judicious  come  of  that?  The  life  irregu- 
larly begun  took  an  irregular  turn,  but  her  heart 
was  not  spoiled,  her  mind  remained  intact. 

"  And  thus  I,  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  found 
myself  with  a  girl  of  thirteen  on  my  hands !  Dur- 
ing the  first  few  days  after  my  father's  death, 
she  was  seized  with  a  fever  at  the  very  sound  of 
my  voice,  my  caresses  inspired  her  with  aversion, 
and  it  was  only  gradually,  little  by  little,  that  she 
grew  accustomed  to  me.  Truth  to  tell,  later  on, 
when  she  became  convinced  that  I  really  did 
recognise  her  as  my  sister,  and  loved  her  as  a 
sister,  she  became  passionately  attached  to  me; 
none  of  her  emotions  go  by  halves. 

"  I  took  her  to  Petersburg.  Painful  as  it  was 
for  me  to  part  from  her,  I  could  not  possibly  live 
with  her ;  I  placed  her  in  one  of  the  best  boarding- 
schools.  Asya  understood  the  necessity  for  our 
parting,  but  began  by  falling  ill  and  nearly  dy- 
ing. Then  she  summoned  her  patience,  and  lived 
through  four  years  in  the  boarding-school;  but, 
contrary  to  my  expectations,  she  remained  almost 
exactly  the  same  as  she  had  been  before.  The 
principal  of  the  boarding-school  made  frequent 
complaints  to  me  about  her :  '  And  it  is  impossible 
to  punish  her,'— she  said  to  me:— 'and  she  does 
not  yield  to  kindness.' 

"Asya  was  extremely  quick  of  understanding, 
and  studied  well,  better  than  all  the  rest;  but  she 
absolutely   refused   to   conform   to  the   general 

280 


ASYA 

standard,  became  stubborn,  and  looked  wild.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  blame  her  over-much ;  in  her  position 
she  was  bound  either  to  cringe  or  stand  aloof. 
Out  of  all  her  companions  she  made  friends  with 
one  only— a  homely,  intimidated,  poor  girl.  The 
other  young  gentlewomen  with  whom  she  was 
being  reared,  mostly  from  good  famihes,  did  not 
like  her,  and  wounded  and  stung  her  to  the  best 
of  their  ability.  Asya  did  not  yield  to  them  by 
so  much  as  a  hair's  breadth.  One  day,  during  a 
lesson  in  religion,^  the  teacher  began  to  speak  of 
vices.  '  Flattery  and  cowardice  are  the  worst 
vices,'  said  Asya  aloud.  In  a  word,  she  continued 
to  pursue  her  own  road;  only  her  manners  im- 
proved;—although,  apparently,  she  is  not  a  suc- 
cess in  that  respect  either. 

"At  last  she  completed  her  seventeenth  year; 
it  was  impossible  to  leave  her  in  the  boarding- 
school  any  longer.  I  found  myself  in  a  rather 
difficult  position.  Suddenly  a  happy  thought  oc- 
curred to  me :  to  resign  from  the  service  and  travel 
abroad  for  a  year  or  two,  taking  Asya  with  me. 
No  sooner  thought  than  done;  and  here  we  are, 
she  and  I,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  where  I  am 
trying  to  occupy  myself  with  painting,  while  she 
....  plays  pranks  and  behaves  queerly  as  of 
old.  But  now,  I  hope,  you  will  not  judge  her  too 
severely;  and  she— although  she  pretends  that  she 

1  "  The  law  of  God  "  is  the  Russian  phrase.     It  occupies 
a  prominent  place  in  all  schools.  — Tkanslatoh. 

281 


ASYA 

does  not  care  a  jot — values  every  one's  opinion, 
yours  in  particular." 

And  again  Gagin  smiled  with  his  tranquil  smile. 
I  clasped  his  hand  warmly. 

"  All  this  is  so," — Gagin  began  again: — "  but 
I  shall  get  into  difficulties  with  her.  She  is  regu- 
lar powder.  So  far,  no  one  has  struck  her  fancy; 
but  woe  is  me  if  she  should  fall  in  love  with  any 
one!  I  never  know  how  to  treat  her.  The  other 
day  this  is  what  she  took  into  her  head:  she  sud- 
denly began  to  assert  that  I  had  grown  colder 
toward  her  than  of  old,  that  she  loved  me  alone. 
....  And  thereupon,  she  fell  to  weeping  so  vio- 
lently .  .  .  ." 

'*  So  that  is  what  .  ..."  I  began,  and  bit  my 
tongue. 

"  But  tell  me,  pray," — I  asked  Gagin,  "  we  are 
speaking  frankly  to  each  other, — is  it  possible 
that,  up  to  this  time,  she  has  not  taken  a  fancy 
to  any  one?  She  must  have  seen  young  men  in 
Petersburg." 

"  She  did  not  like  them  at  all.  No,  Asya  must 
needs  have  a  hero,  a  remarkable  man — or  a  pic- 
turesque shepherd  in  a  mountain  gorge.  But  I 
have  chattered  too  much  with  you,  I  have  de- 
tained you," — he  added,  rising. 

"See  here,"— I  began:— "let  's  go  to  your 
house;  I  don't  want  to  go  home." 

"  And  how  about  your  work?  " 

I  made  no  reply;   Gagin   laughed  good-hu- 

282 


ASYA 

mouredly,  and  we  returned  to  L.  At  the  sight 
of  the  f  amiHar  vineyard  and  the  Httle  white  house 
on  the  top  of  the  hill,  I  experienced  a  certain 
sweetness, — precisely  that,  sweetness — in  my 
heart:  it  was  as  though  honey  were  silently  flow- 
ing through  it.  I  felt  at  ease  since  Gagin's  nar- 
rative. 

IX 

AsYA  met  us  on  the  very  threshold  of  the  house ; 
I  expected  another  laugh ;  but  she  came  out  to  us 
all  pale,  silent,  and  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  Here  he  is  again,"— said  Gagin:— "  and  ob- 
serve, he  wanted  to  come  back  himself." 

Asya  darted  an  inquiring  glance  at  me.  I, 
in  my  turn,  offered  her  my  hand,  and  this  time 
warmly  grasped  her  cold  little  fingers.  I  felt 
very  sorry  for  her;  I  now  understood  much  in 
her  which  had  previously  thrown  me  off  the  track ; 
— her  inward  uneasiness,  her  ignorance  of  how  to 
behave  herself,  her  desire  to  show  off, — all  had 
become  clear  to  me.  I  had  taken  a  look  into  that 
soul;  a  secret  burden  oppressed  her  constantly, 
her  inexperienced  vanity  was  tremulously  per- 
plexed and  throbbing,  but  everything  in  her  being 
aspired  toward  truth.  I  understood  why  that 
strange  young  girl  attracted  me;  she  attracted 
me  not  alone  by  the  half -savage  charm  diffused 
over  all  her  slender  body :  her  soul  pleased  me. 

283 


ASYA 

Gagin  began  to  rummage  among  his  draw- 
ings; I  proposed  to  Asya  that  she  should  take  a 
stroll  with  me  in  the  vineyard.  She  immediately 
assented,  with  blithe  and  almost  submissive 
alacrity.  We  descended  half-way  down  the 
hill,  and  seated  ourselves  on  a  broad  slab  of 
stone. 

"  And  were  n't  you  bored  without  us?  "—be- 
gan Asya. 

"  And  were  you  bored  without  me?  "—I  in- 
quired. 

Asya  darted  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 

"  Yes,"— she  replied.  —  "  Is  it  nice  in  the  moun- 
tains? " — she  immediately  continued: — "  are  they 
high?  Higher  than  the  clouds?  Tell  me  what 
you  saw.  You  told  my  brother,  but  I  did  not 
hear  anything." 

"  Why  did  you  go  away?  " — I  remarked. 

"  I  went  away  ....  because  ....  I  won't  go 
away  now,"— she  added  with  confiding  aiFection 
in  her  voice:— "you  were  angry  to-day." 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  you." 

^1  Why,  pray? » 

"  I  don't  know ;  but  you  were  angry,  and  went 
away  angry.  I  was  greatly  vexed  that  you  went 
away  in  that  manner,  and  I  am  so  glad  that  you 
have  come  back." 

"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  have  come  back," — 
said  I. 

284 


ASYA 

Asya  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  children  often 
do  when  they  feel  at  ease. 

"  Oh,  I  know  how  to  guess!  " — she  went  on: 
— "I  used  to  be  able  to  know,  from  papa's  cough 
alone  in  the  next  room,  whether  he  was  pleased 
with  me  or  not." 

Up  to  that  day  Asya  had  never  spoken  to  me  of 
her  father.  I  was  struck  by  this.  "  Did  you  love 
your  papa? " — I  said,  and  suddenly,  to  my  in- 
tense vexation,  I  felt  that  I  was  blushing. 

She  made  no  reply,  and  blushed  also.  Both  of 
us  remained  silent  for  a  while.  Far  away  on  the 
Rhine  a  steamer  was  sailing  and  emitting  smoke. 
We  began  to  gaze  at  it. 

"But  why  don't  you  tell  me  about  your  jour- 
ney? " — whispered  Asya. 

"  Why  did  you  burst  out  laughing  to-day,  as 
soon  as  you  caught  sight  of  me?  " — I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  myself.  Sometimes  I  feel  like 
crying,  yet  I  laugh.  You  must  not  condemn  me 
....  for  what  I  do.  Akh,  by  the  way,  what  is 
that  legend  about  the  Lorelei?  That  is  her  rock 
which  we  can  see,  is  n't  it?  They  say  that  she 
drowned  every  one  at  first,  but  when  she  fell  in 
love  she  threw  herself  into  the  water.  I  like  that 
legend.  Frau  Luise  tells  me  all  sorts  of  legends. 
Frau  Luise  has  a  black  cat  with  yellow  eyes.  ..." 

Asya  raised  her  head  and  shook  back  her  curls. 

"  Akh,  I  feel  so  comfortable,"— she  said. 

At  that  moment,  abrupt,  monotonous  sounds 

285 


ASYA 

were  wafted  to  our  ears.  Hundreds  of  voices 
were  repeating  a  prayerful  chant  simultaneously, 
and  with  measured  pauses;  a  throng  of  pilgrims 
was  winding  along  the  road  below,  with  crosses 
and  banners.  .  .  . 

"  I  'd  like  to  join  them," — said  Asya,  as  she 
listened  to  the  bursts  of  voices  which  were  grad- 
ually dying  away. 

"  Are  you  so  devout?  " 

**  I  'd  like  to  go  somewhere  far  away,  to  pray, 
on  a  difficult  exploit,"— she  went  on.—"  Other- 
wise, the  days  go  by,  life  will  pass,  and  what  have 
we  done?  " 

"You  are  ambitious," — I  remarked:— "you 
do  not  wish  to  live  in  vain,  you  want  to  leave  a 
trail  of  glory  behind  you.  .  .  ." 

"  And  is  that  impossible?  " 

"  Impossible,"  I  came  near  repeating.  .  .  . 
But  I  glanced  at  her  bright  eyes  and  merely  said : 

"  Try." 

"  Tell  me,"— began  Asya,  after  a  brief  silence, 
in  the  course  of  which  certain  shadows  had  flitted 
across  her  face,  that  had  already  paled  again: 
— "  were  you  very  fond  of  that  lady?  ....  You 
remember,  my  brother  drank  to  her  health  on  the 
ruin  on  the  second  day  of  our  acquaintance." 

I  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Your  brother  was  jesting.  I  have  not  been 
fond  of  any  lady ;  at  all  events,  I  am  not  fond  of 
any  one  now." 

286 


ASYA 

"And  what  pleases  you  in  women?"— in- 
quired Asya,  throwing  back  her  head  with  in- 
nocent curiosity. 

"  What  a  strange  question!  " — I  exclaimed. 

Asya  was  slightly  disconcerted. 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  put  such  a  question  to 
you,  ought  I?  Pardon  me;  I  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  blurt  out  everything  which  comes  into 
my  head.    That  is  why  I  am  afraid  to  talk." 

"  Talk,  for  Heaven's  sake;  be  not  afraid!  "  —  I 
interposed: — "  I  am  so  glad  that  you  have,  at  last, 
ceased  to  be  shy." 

Asya  dropped  her  eyes  and  began  to  laugh 
softly  and  lightly ;  I  did  not  know  she  could  laugh 
in  that  way. 

"  Come,  tell  me," — she  went  on,  smoothing  the 
folds  of  her  gown,  and  laying  them  over  her  feet, 
as  though  she  did  not  intend  to  move  for  a  long 
time:—"  tell  me  something,  or  recite  something, 
as  when  you  recited  to  us  from  '  Onyegin,'  you 
remember " 

She  suddenly  became  pensive.  .  .  . 

"  Where  is  now  the  cross  and  the  shadow  of  the  bough 
Over  my  poor  mother!  " 

she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  That  is  not  the  way  Pushkin  has  it,"— I  re- 
marked. 

"  I  should  like  to  be  Tatyana,"  ^  she  went  on, 

^Tatyana  is  the  famous  heroine  of  Pushkin's  poem, 
"Evgdny  Onyegin."  — Translator. 

287 


ASYA 

in  the  same  thoughtful  manner.—"  Recite,"— she 
interjected  with  vivacity. 

But  I  was  in  no  mood  for  recitation.  I  gazed 
at  her,  all  bathed  in  the  sunlight,  all  composed 
and  gentle.  Everything  was  beaming  joyously 
around  us— the  sky,  the  earth,  and  the  waters; 
the  very  air  seemed  to  be  permeated  with  bril- 
liancy. 

"  See,  how  beautiful  it  is," — I  said,  involun- 
tarily lowering  my  voice. 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful," — she  replied  with  equal 
softness,  and  without  looking  at  me. — "  If  you 
and  I  were  only  birds — how  we  would  soar,  would 
fly  away.  .  .  .  We  would  fairly  drown  in  that 
azure.  .  .  .  But  we  are  not  birds." 

"  Yet  wings  might  sprout  on  us,"— I  returned. 

"How  so?" 

"If  you  live  long  enough,  you  will  find  out. 
There  are  feelings  which  raise  us  above  the  earth. 
Don't  worry,  you  will  have  wings." 

"  And  have  you  had  any?  " 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  you?  ...  I  don't  think 
I  have  flown  up  to  the  present  moment." 

Again  Asya  became  pensive.  I  bent  slightly 
toward  her. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  waltz?  "—she  suddenly 
inquired. 

"  I  do,"— I  replied,  somewhat  surprised. 

"  Then  let  us  go,  let  us  go.  ...  I  will  ask  my 
brother  to  play  a  waltz  for  us.  .  .  .  We  will  im- 

288 


ASYA 

agine  that  we  are  flying,  that  wings  have  sprouted 


on  us." 


She  ran  toward  the  house.  I  ran  after  her,  and 
a  few  moments  later  we  were  circHng  round  the 
httle  room  to  the  sweet  sounds  of  Lanner.  Asya 
waltzed  beautifully,  with  enthusiasm.  Some- 
thing soft  and  feminine  suddenly  pierced  through 
her  virginally-severe  face.  For  a  long  time  after- 
ward my  arm  felt  the  contact  of  her  dainty  waist ; 
for  a  long  time  I  seemed  to  hear  her  accelerated 
breathing  near  at  hand;  for  a  long  time  visions 
of  dark  eyes  almost  closed,  in  a  pale  but  animated 
face,  with  curls  sportively  fluttering  around  it, 
flitted  before  me. 


X 


That  whole  day  passed  off"  in  the  best  possible 
manner.  We  made  merry,  like  children.  Asya 
was  very  charming  and  simple.  Gagin  rejoiced 
as  he  looked  at  her.  It  was  late  when  I  went 
away.  On  reaching  the  middle  of  the  Rhine,  I 
requested  the  boatman  to  let  the  skifl"  float  down 
the  current.  The  old  man  elevated  his  oars,  and 
the  royal  river  bore  us  onward.  As  I  gazed 
about  me,  listening  and  recalling,  I  suddenly  felt 
a  secret  restlessness  at  my  heart  ....  and  raised 
my  eyes  heavenward.  But  there  was  no  rest  in 
the  sky  either;  besprinkled  with  stars,  it  was  all 

289 


ASYA 

astir,  moving,  quivering:  I  bent  over  the  river, 
....  but  there  also,  in  those  cold  depths,  the 
stars  were  undulating  and  throbbing;  it  seemed 
to  me  that  there  was  tremulous  animation  every- 
where, and  the  tremulousness  within  me  in- 
creased. I  leaned  my  elbows  on  the  edge  of  the 
boat.  .  .  .  The  whisper  of  the  wind  in  my  ears, 
the  quiet  purling  of  the  water  at  the  stern,  and  the 
cool  breath  of  the  waves  did  not  refresh  me;  a 
nightingale  began  to  warble  on  the  shore  and 
infected  me  with  the  sweet  poison  of  its  notes.^ 
Tears  welled  up  in  my  eyes,  but  they  were  not  the 
tears  of  objectless  rapture.  What  I  felt  was  not 
that  troubled  sensation  which  I  had  so  recently 
experienced  of  all-embracing  desire,  when  the 
soul  widens  out,  reverberates ;  when  it  seems  to  it 
that  it  understands  everything  and  loves  every- 
thing. No!  the  thirst  for  happiness  had  been 
kindled  in  me.  I  did  not,  as  yet,  dare  to  call  it 
by  name, — but  happiness,  happiness  to  satiety, — 
that  was  what  I  wanted,  that  was  what  I  was 
pining  for.  .  .  .  And  still  the  boat  was  borne 
onward,  and  the  old  boatman  sat,  and  dozed,  as 
he  bent  over  his  oars. 

XI 

When  I  set  out  for  the  Gagins'  on  the  following 
day,  I  did  not  ask  myself  whether  I  was  in  love 
with  Asya,  but  I  meditated  a  great  deal  about 

290 


ASYA 

her,  her  fate  interested  me,  I  rejoiced  at  our  un- 
expected intimacy.  I  felt  that  only  since  the  day 
before  had  I  known  her;  up  to  that  time  she  had 
turned  away  from  me.  And  now,  when  she  had 
blossomed  out  at  last  before  me,  with  what  an  en- 
chanting light  was  her  image  illuminated,  how 
new  it  was  to  me,  what  secret  witcheries  bashfully 
pierced  through  it!  .  .  . 

I  walked  briskly  along  the  familiar  path,  inces- 
santly glancing  at  the  little  house  which  gleamed 
white  in  the  distance ;  I  not  only  did  not  think  of 
the  future,  I  did  not  think  even  of  the  morrow; 
I  felt  greatly  at  my  ease. 

Asya  blushed  when  I  entered  the  room;  I  no- 
ticed that  she  had  again  arrayed  herself  gaily,  but 
the  expression  of  her  face  did  not  consort  with  her 
attire;  it  was  sad.  And  I  had  arrived  in  such  a 
merry  mood!  It  even  seemed  to  me  that,  accord- 
ing to  her  wont,  she  was  preparing  to  flee,  but 
exerted  an  effort  over  herself, — and  remained. 
Gagin  was  in  that  peculiar  condition  of  artistic 
ardour  and  fury  which,  in  the  shape  of  an  attack, 
suddenly  takes  possession  of  dilettantes  when  they 
imagine  that  they  have  been  successful,  as  they 
express  it,  in  "  seizing  nature  by  the  tail."  He 
was  standing,  all  dishevelled  and  besmeared  with 
paints,  in  front  of  a  canvas  stretched  on  a  frame, 
and,  sweeping  the  brush  across  it  with  a  flourish, 
he  nodded  his  head  almost  fiercely  at  me,  re- 
treated, screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  again  flung  him- 

291 


ASYA 

self  at  his  picture.  I  did  not  interfere  with  him, 
and  sat  down  beside  Asya.  Her  dark  eyes  slowly 
turned  to  me. 

"  You  are  not  the  same  to-day  as  you  were  yes- 
terday,"—  I  remarked,  after  futile  efforts  to 
evoke  a  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  No,  I  am  not  the  same," — she  returned  in 
a  dull,  deliberate  voice: — "but  that  is  nothing. 
I  did  not  sleep  well;  I  thought  all  night  long." 

"  What  about? " 

"  Akh,  I  thought  of  many  things.  It  is  a  habit 
of  mine  since  childhood;  even  at  the  time  when 
I  used  to  live  with  mamma.  ..." 

She  uttered  that  word  with  difficulty,  and  then 
repeated : 

"  When  I  lived  with  mamma.  ...  I  used  to 
think,  why  it  was  that  no  one  can  find  out  what 
will  become  of  us;  and  sometimes  one  has  a  pre- 
sentiment of  a  catastrophe, — but  it  is  impossible 
to  be  happy ;  and  why  it  is  that  one  must  never  tell 
the  whole  truth?  ....  Then  I  thought  that  I 
knew  nothing,  that  I  must  study.  I  must  be 
educated  all  over  again.  I  am  very  badly  brought 
up.  I  don't  know  how  to  play  on  the  piano,  I 
don't  know  how  to  draw,  I  even  sew  badly.  I 
have  no  talents;  people  must  find  it  very  dull  in 
my  company." 

"You  are  unjust  to  yourself,"— I  replied:— 
"  you  have  read  a  great  deal,  you  are  cultured, 
and  with  your  intelligence  .  .  .  ." 

292 


ASYA 

"  Am  I  intelligent?  "—she  asked  with  such  an 
ingenuous  thirst  for  information,  that  I  involun- 
tarily burst  out  laughing;  but  she  did  not  even 
smile.  —  "  Brother,  am  I  intelligent?  "—she  asked 
Gagin. 

He  made  her  no  reply,  and  went  on  with  his 
labours,  incessantly  changing  his  brushes,  and  ele- 
vating his  arm  very  high. 

"  I  sometimes  don't  know  myself  what  there  is 
in  my  head,"— pursued  Asya,  with  the  same  inno- 
cent mien.—"  I  am  afraid  of  myself  sometimes 
God  is  my  witness,  I  am.    Akh,  I  would  like.  .  . 
Is  it  true  that  women  ought  not  to  read  much  ? ' 

"  Not  much  reading  is  necessary,  but  .  .  .  .' 

"  Tell  me  what  I  ought  to  read.  Tell  me  what 
I  ought  to  do.  I  will  do  everything  you  tell 
me,"— she  added,  turning  to  me  with  innocent 
trustfulness. 

I  did  not  at  once  hit  upon  anything  to  say  to 
her. 

"  You  won't  find  it  boresome  with  me,  will 
you?" 

"  Good  gracious !  "  ....  I  began.  .  .  . 

"Well,  thanks!"— returned  Asya;— "but  I 
was  thinking  that  you  would  find  it  tiresome." 
And  her  hot  little  hand  gripped  mine  forcibly. 

"N.!" — exclaimed  Gagin  at  that  moment: — 
"  Is  n't  this  background  too  dark?  " 

I  went  to  him.    Asya  rose  and  withdrew. 


293 


ASYA 


XII 


She  returned  an  hour  later,  halted  in  the  door- 
way, and  beckoned  to  me  with  her  hand. 

"  Listen,"— said  she:—"  if  I  were  to  die,  would 
you  feel  sorry  for  me?  " 

"  What  ideas  you  have  to-day!  " — I  exclaimed. 

"  I  have  an  idea  that  I  shall  die  soon ;  it  some- 
times seems  to  me  that  everything  around  me  is 
bidding  me  farewell.  It  is  better  to  die  than  to 
live  thus.  .  .  Akh!  don't  look  at  me  like  that; 
truly,  I  am  not  pretending.  Otherwise  I  shall 
be  afraid  of  you  again." 

"  Were  you  afraid  of  me?  " 

"  Really,  I  am  not  to  blame,  if  I  am  such  a 
strange  creature," — she  replied. — "  As  you  see,  I 
cannot  laugh  any  more.  ..." 

She  remained  sad  and  preoccupied  until  the 
evening.  Something  was  taking  place  within  her 
which  I  did  not  understand.  Her  gaze  frequently 
rested  on  me;  my  heart  contracted  quietly  be- 
neath that  enigmatical  gaze.  She  seemed  calm, 
—but  when  I  looked  at  her,  I  kept  wanting  to 
say  to  her,  that  she  must  not  agitate  herself. 
—I  admired  her,  found  a  touching  charm  in 
her  pallid  features,  in  her  undecided,  delib- 
erate movements — but  for  some  reason  or 
other,  she  took  it  into  her  head  that  I  was  out  of 
sorts. 

294 


ASYA 

"  Listen," — she  said  to  me  not  long  before  I 
took  leave: — "  I  am  tortured  by  the  thought  that 
I  am  considered  giddy.  .  .  .  Henceforth  you 
must  always  believe  what  I  shall  say  to  you, 
only  you  must  be  frank  with  me;  and  I  will  al- 
ways speak  the  truth  to  you,  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour.  ..." 

This  "  word  of  honour  "  made  me  burst  out 
laughing  again. 

"  Akh,— don't  laugh,"— she  said  with  vivacity: 
— "or  I  will  say  to  you  to-day  what  you  said  to 
me  yesterday:— '  Why  do  you  laugh?'"— And 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  added: — "Do  you  re- 
member, you  spoke  of  wings  yesterday?  .  .  .  My 
wings  have  sprouted,— but  there  is  nowhere  to 

fly." 

"Good  gracious,"— said  I:— "all  roads  are 
open  to  you.  ..." 

Asya  looked  me  straight  and  intently  In  the 
eye. 

"  You  have  a  bad  opinion  of  me  to-day,"— said 
she,  contracting  her  brows  in  a  frown. 

"I?    A  bad  opinion?    Of  you!  .  .  .  .  " 

"  Why  is  it  that  you  are  just  as  though  you  had 
been  dipped  in  the  water? "— Gagin  interrupted 
me:— "  I  '11  play  a  waltz  for  you,  as  I  did  yester- 
day;- shall  I?  " 

"No,  no,"— replied  Asya,  clenching  her  fists: 
— "  not  on  any  account  to-day!  " 

"  I  am  not  forcing  you;  calm  yourself.  .  .  ." 

295 


ASYA 

"  Not  on  any  account,"— she  repeated,  turning 
pale. 


"  Can  it  be  that  she  loves  me?  "  I  thought,  as  I 
approached  the  Rhine,  which  was  flowing  swiftly 
past  in  dark  waves. 

XIII 

"  Can  it  be  that  she  loves  me? "  I  asked  myself 
the  next  day,  as  soon  as  I  awoke. — I  did  not  wish 
to  look  within  myself.  I  felt  that  her  image,  the 
image  "  of  the  girl  with  the  strained  laugh,"  had 
imprinted  itself  on  my  soul,  and  that  I  should 
not  soon  rid  myself  of  it.  —  I  went  to  L.  and  re- 
mained there  the  entire  day,  but  caught  only  a 
ghmpse  of  Asya.  She  was  not  well:  she  had  a 
headache.  She  came  down-stairs  for  a  moment, 
with  her  brow  bound  up,  pale,  thin,  with  eyes 
almost  closed;  she  smiled  faintly,  said: — "  it  will 
pass  off,  it  is  nothing,  all  will  pass  off,  will  it 
not? " — and  went  away.  I  found  things  tire- 
some, and,  somehow,  mournfully-empty;  but  I 
would  not  go  away  for  a  long  time,  and  returned 
home  late,  without  having  seen  her  again. 

The  following  morning  passed  by  in  a  sort  of 
semi-doze  of  consciousness.  I  tried  to  set  to  work, 
and  could  not;  I  tried  to  do  things  and  not  to 
think  ....  and  did  not  make  a  success  of  that 

296 


ASYA 

either.  I  wandered  about  the  town;  when  I  got 
home,  I  started  out  again. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  N.  ?  "— a  childish  voice  suddenly 
rang  out  behind  me.  I  glanced  round ;  before  me 
stood  a  small  urchin.—"  This  is  for  you  from 
Fraulein  Annette,"— he  added,  handing  me  a 
note. 

I  unfolded  it — and  recognised  Asya's  hasty,  ir- 
regular chirography.— "  It  is  imperatively  neces- 
sary that  I  should  see  you," — she  wrote  me. — 
"  Come  to-day,  at  four  o'clock,  to  the  stone  chapel 
on  the  road  near  the  ruin.  I  have  committed  a 
great  indiscretion  to-day.  .  .  .  Come,  for  God's 
sake,  and  you  shall  know  all.  .  .  .  Say  '  yes '  to 
the  messenger." 

"  Will  there  be  any  answer?  "—the  boy  asked 
me. 

"  Say  that  I  answer  '  yes,'  "  I  replied.  The 
boy  ran  off. 


XIV 

I  CAME  to  my  senses  in  my  own  room,  sat  down, 
and  became  immersed  in  thought.  My  heart  was 
beating  violently  within  me.  I  read  over  Asya's 
note  several  times.  I  glanced  at  my  watch:  it 
was  not  yet  twelve  o'clock. 

The  door  opened— Gagin  entered. 

His  face  was  gloomy.    He  grasped  my  hand 

297 


ASYA 

and  shook  it  vigorously.  He  seemed  greatly  per- 
turbed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "—I  asked. 

Gagin  took  a  chair,  and  sat  down  opposite  me. 

"Three  days  ago,"— he  began  with  a  con- 
strained smile,  and  hesitating  as  he  spoke,—"  I 
astonished  you  by  my  tale ;  to-day  I  shall  astonish 
you  still  more.— With  any  one  else  I  should  not, 
probably,  have  made  up  my  mind  ....  to  speak 
....  so  plainly But  you  are  an  hon- 
ourable man,  you  are  my  friend,  are  you  not?— 
Listen:  my  sister  Asya  is  in  love  with  you." 

I  trembled  all  over  and  half  rose  from  my 

"  Your  sister,  you  say  .  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes,"— Gagin  interrupted  me.—"  I  tell 
you  that  she  is  crazy  and  will  drive  me  out  of  my 
senses.  But,  fortunately,  she  does  not  know  how 
to  lie— and  she  trusts  me.— Akh,  what  a  soul  that 
little  girl  has!  .  .  .  but  she  will  certainly  ruin 
herself." 

"  But  you  are  mistaken,"— I  began. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mistaken.  Yesterday,  you 
know,  she  was  lying  down  almost  all  day ;  she  ate 
nothing,  but  she  did  not  complain  of  anything. 
....  She  never  complains.— I  was  not  uneasy, 
although  toward  evening  a  slight  fever  made  its 
appearance.  At  two  o'clock  this  morning,  our 
landlady  woke  me :  '  Go  to  your  sister,'  she  said : 
'  there  's  something  wrong  with  her.'— I  ran  to 

298 


ASYA 

Asya,  and  found  her  fully  dressed,  in  a  fever,  in 
tears ;  her  head  was  burning,  her  teeth  were  chat- 
tering. 'What  aileth  thee?'  I  inquired:— 'Art 
thou  ill?  '—She  threw  herself  on  my  neck  and  be- 
gan to  implore  me  to  take  her  away  as  promptly 
as  possible,  if  I  wanted  her  to  remain  ahve.  ...  I 
understood  nothing,  I  tried  to  soothe  her.  .  .  . 
Her  sobs  redoubled  ....  and  suddenly,  through 
those  sobs  I  heard.  .  .  .  Well,  in  a  word,  I  heard 
that  she  loved  you.— I  assure  you  that  you  and 
I,  sensible  people,  cannot  even  imagine  to  our- 
selves how  deeply  she  feels,  and  with  what  in- 
credible violence  feehngs  manifest  themselves  in 
her:  the  attack  comes  over  her  as  suddenly  and 
as  irresistibly  as  a  thunder-storm.— You  are  a 
very  charming  man,"— pursued  Gagin,— "  but 
why  she  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  you,  I  do 
not  understand,  I  must  confess.  She  says  that 
she  became  attached  to  you  at  first  sight.  That 
is  why  she  wept  the  other  day,  when  she  assured 
me  that  she  did  not  wish  to  love  any  one  except 
me.— She  imagines  that  you  despise  her,  that  you 
probably  know  who  she  is ;  she  asked  me  whether 
I  had  not  narrated  her  story  to  you,— and  I,  of 
course,  said  that  I  had  not;  but  her  sensitiveness 
is  simply  terrible.  She  wishes  only  one  thing :  to 
go  away,  to  go  away  instantly.  —  I  sat  with  her  un- 
til morning;  she  made  me  promise  that  we  should 
be  gone  from  here  to-morrow— and  only  then  did 
she  fall  asleep.— I  reflected,  and  reflected,  and 

299 


ASYA 

made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  In  my 
opinion,  Asya  is  right:  the  very  best  thing  is  for 
us  both  to  go  away  from  here.  And  I  would  have 
taken  her  away  to-day,  had  not  an  idea  occurred 
to  me  which  stopped  me.  Perhaps  ....  who 
knows? — my  sister  pleases  j^ou?  If  so,  why 
should  I  take  her  away?— And  so  I  decided,  cast- 
ing aside  all  shame.  .  .  .  Moreover,  I  have  no- 
ticed something.  ...  I  decided  ....  to  learn 
from  you  .  .  .  ."  Poor  Gagin  got  entangled. — 
"Pardon  me,  pray,"— he  added:— "I  am  not 
accustomed  to  such  worries." 

I  grasped  his  hand. 

"  You  wish  to  know,"— I  enunciated  in  a  firm 
voice:—"  whether  I  hke  your  sister?— Yes,  I  do 
like  her.  .  .  ." 

Gagin  looked  at  me.—"  But,"— he  said,  falter- 
ing,— "  surely  you  will  not  marry  her?  " 

"  How  do  you  wish  me  to  answer  such  a  ques- 
tion?   Judge  for  yourself  whether  I  can  now. ..." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"— Gagin  interrupted  me. — 
"  I  have  no  right  to  demand  an  answer  from  you, 
and  my  question  is  the  height  of  indecorum.  .  .  . 
But  what  would  you  have  me  do?  One  cannot 
play  with  fire.  You  do  not  know  Asya;  she  is 
capable  of  falling  ill,  of  running  away,  of  ap- 
pointing a  tryst  with  you.  .  .  .  Any  other  wo- 
man would  know  how  to  conceal  everything  and 
wait— but  not  she.  This  is  the  first  time  it  has 
happened  to  her— and  therein  lies  the  mischief  I 

800 


ASYA 

If  you  could  have  seen  how  she  sobbed  to-day  at 
my  feet,  you  would  understand  my  apprehen- 
sions." 

I  reflected.  Gagin's  words :  "  of  appointing 
a  tryst  with  you,"  pricked  me  to  the  heart.  It 
seemed  to  me  shameful  not  to  reply  to  his  hon- 
ourable frankness  with  frankness. 

"  Yes," — I  said  at  last: — "  you  are  right.  An 
hour  ago,  I  received  from  your  sister  a  note. 
Here  it  is." 

Gagin  took  the  note,  ran  his  eyes  hastily  over  it, 
and  dropped  his  hands  on  his  knees.  The  ex- 
pression of  amazement  on  his  face  was  very 
amusing ;  but  I  was  in  no  mood  for  laughter. 

"  You  are  an  honourable  man,  I  repeat  it," — 
said  he: — "  but  what  is  to  be  done  now?  What? 
She  herself  wants  to  go  away,  and  she  writes  to 
you  and  accuses  herself  of  indiscretion  ....  and 
when  did  she  get  a  chance  to  write  this?  What 
does  she  want  of  you?  " 

I  reassured  him,  and  we  began  to  discuss  coolly, 
so  far  as  we  were  able,  what  we  ought  to  do. 

This  is  what  we  finally  decided  upon:  with  the 
object  of  preventing  a  catastrophe,  I  was  to  go 
to  the  tryst  and  have  an  honest  explanation  with 
Asya;  Gagin  promised  to  sit  quietly  at  home, 
and  not  to  appear  to  know  about  her  note;  and 
we  agreed  to  meet  together  again  in  the  evening. 

"  I  place  firm  reliance  on  you," — said  Gagin, 
gripping  my  hand: — "  spare  her,  and  me.    And 

301 


ASYA 

we  will  go  away  to-morrow,  all  the  same,"— he 
added,  rising:— "for  you  will  not  marry  Asya, 
assuredly." 

"  Give  me  until  evening," — I  returned. 

"  Certainly;  but  you  will  not  marry  her." 

He  went  away,  and  I  flung  myself  on  the  divan 
and  closed  my  eyes.  My  head  was  reeling;  too 
many  impressions  had  descended  upon  it  at  once. 
I  was  vexed  at  Gagin's  frankness,  I  was  vexed 
at  Asya;  her  love  both  dehghted  and  upset 
me.  I  could  not  comprehend  what  had  made 
her  tell  her  brother  all;  the  inevitableness  of  a 
prompt,  almost  instantaneous  decision  worried 
me.  ... 

"  Marry  a  little  girl  of  seventeen,  with  her  dis- 
position,— how  is  that  possible?"— I  said,  as  I 
rose. 

XV 

At  the  hour  agreed  upon  I  crossed  the  Rhine, 
and  the  first  person  who  met  me  on  the  opposite 
shore  was  that  same  small  urchin  who  had  come 
to  me  in  the  morning.  Evidently  he  was  waiting 
for  me. 

"  From  Fraulein  Annette," — he  said  in  a  whis- 
per, and  handed  me  another  note. 

Asya  informed  me  that  the  place  for  our  tryst 
had  been  changed.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  and  a 
half  I  was  to  go,  not  to  the  chapel,  but  to  the 

802 


ASYA 

house  of  Frau  Luise,  knock  at  the  lower  door,  and 
ascend  to  the  third  story. 

"  '  Yes  '  again?  "—the  boy  asked  me. 

"  Yes,"— I  repeated,  and  strolled  along  the 
bank  of  the  Rhine.  There  was  not  time  to  return 
home,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  prowl  about  the 
streets.  Outside  the  town  wall  there  was  a  tiny 
garden,  with  a  sign  announcing  skittles  and 
tables  for  lovers  of  beer.  I  went  thither.  Sev- 
eral Germans,  already  advanced  in  years,  were 
playing  skittles;  the  wooden  balls  rolled  with  a 
clatter;  now  and  then  exclamations  of  approba- 
tion resounded.  A  pretty  serving-maid  with 
tear-stained  eyes  brought  me  a  tankard  of  beer; 
I  glanced  at  her  face.  She  swiftly  turned  aside 
and  went  away. 

"  Yes,  yes," — said  a  fat,  red-cheeked  burgher, 
who  was  sitting  near  by: — "  our  Hanchen  is  much 
afflicted  to-day; — her  betrothed  has  gone  to  be  a 
soldier." — I  looked  at  her;  she  had  crouched  down 
in  a  corner,  and  propped  her  cheek  on  her  hand; 
the  tears  were  dripping  one  by  one  through  her 
fingers.  Some  one  asked  for  beer;  she  brought 
him  a  tankard  and  returned  again  to  her  place. 
Her  grief  affected  me;  I  began  to  think  about 
my  impending  tryst,  but  my  thoughts  were  anx- 
ious, cheerless  thoughts.  It  was  with  no  light 
heart  that  I  was  going  to  that  meeting,  there  was 
no  prospect  of  my  surrendering  myself  to  the 
joys  of  mutual  love;  what  awaited  me  was  the 

303 


ASYA 

keeping  of  my  word  which  had  been  pledged,  the 
fulfilling  of  a  difficult  obligation.—"  She  is  not 
to  be  jested  with,"— those  words  of  Gagin  pierced 
my  soul  like  arrows.  And  three  days  ago,  in  that 
boat  borne  away  by  the  waves,  had  I  not  lan- 
guished with  the  thirst  for  happiness?  It  had 
become  possible — and  I  was  wavering,  I  was  re- 
pulsing it,  I  was  bound  to  put  it  from  me.  .  .  . 
Its  suddenness  had  disconcerted  me.  Asya  her- 
self, with  her  fiery  brain,  with  her  past,  her  rear- 
ing,— that  attractive,  but  peculiar  being, — I  must 
confess  that  she  frightened  me.  For  a  long  time 
did  these  feelings  contend  within  me.  The  ap- 
pointed hour  was  approaching.  "  I  cannot  marry 
her," — I  decided  at  last: — "she  shall  not  know 
that  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  also." 

I  rose, — and  laying  a  thaler  in  the  hand  of 
poor  Hanchen  (she  did  not  even  thank  me),  I 
wended  my  way  to  Frau  Luise's  house.  The 
evening  shadows  were  already  diifused  through 
the  air,  and  the  narrow  strip  of  sky  above  the 
dark  street  was  crimson  with  the  sunset  glow.  I 
knocked  feebly  at  the  door;  it  immediately 
opened.  I  stepped  across  the  threshold  and 
found  myself  in  total  darkness. 

"  This  way!  " — an  elderly  voice  made  itself  au- 
dible.— "  You  are  expected." 

I  advanced  a  couple  of  paces  gropingly,  and 
some  one's  bony  hand  grasped  my  hand. 

"  Are  you  Frau  Luise?  "—I  asked. 

304 


ASYA 

"I  am,"— the  same  voice  answered  me:  — "I 
am,  my  very  fine  young  man."— The  old  woman 
led  me  up-stairs,  by  a  winding  staircase,  and 
halted  on  the  landing  of  the  third  story.  By  the 
faint  light  which  fell  through  a  tiny  window  I 
descried  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  burgomaster's 
widow.  A  mawkishly-crafty  smile  distended  her 
sunken  lips,  and  puckered  up  her  dim  little  eyes. 
She  pointed  out  to  me  a  tiny  door.  With  a  con- 
vulsive movement  of  the  arm  I  opened  it,  and 
slammed  it  behind  me. 


XVI 

In  the  small  room  which  I  entered  it  was  decid- 
edly dark,  and  I  did  not  at  once  perceive  Asya. 
Enveloped  in  a  long  shawl,  she  was  sitting  on 
a  chair  near  the  window,  with  her  head  turned 
away  and  almost  concealed,  like  a  frightened 
bird.  I  felt  unspeakably  sorry  for  her.  She 
turned  her  head  still  further  away.  .  .  . 

"  Anna  Nikolaevna,"— I  said. 

She  suddenly  straightened  herself  up  fully, 
and  tried  to  look  at  me— and  could  not.  I  seized 
her  hand;  it  was  cold,  and  lay  like  dead  in  my 
palm. 

"  I  wanted,"  ....  began  Asya,  making  an 
effort  to  smile;  but  her  pale  lips  did  not  obey  her: 
—"I  wanted.  .  .  .  No,  I  cannot,"— she  said,  and 

305 


ASYA 

fell  silent.  In  fact,  her  voice  broke  at  every 
word. 

I  sat  dovi^n  by  her  side. 

"  Anna  Nikolaevna,"  I  repeated,  and  I  also 
was  unable  to  add  anything  further. 

A  silence  ensued.  I  continued  to  hold  her  hand 
and  gaze  at  her.  She,  as  before,  shrank  all  to- 
gether, breathed  with  difficulty,  and  quietly  bit 
her  under  lip,  to  keep  from  weeping,  to  restrain 
the  welling  tears.  ...  I  gazed  at  her :  there  was 
something  touchingly-helpless  in  her  timid  im- 
passivity; it  seemed  as  though  she  had  barely 
made  her  way  to  the  chair  with  fatigue,  and  had 
fairly  collapsed  upon  it.  My  heart  melted  within 
me.  .  .  . 

"Asya," — I  said,  in  a  barely  audible  voice. 

She  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  mine.  .  .  .  Oh, 
glance  of  the  woman  who  is  in  love,  who  shall 
describe  thee?  They  implored,  those  eyes,  they 
trusted,  they  interrogated,  they  surrendered 
themselves.  ...  I  could  not  resist  their  witchery. 
A  thin  fire  ran  through  me,  like  red-hot  needles ; 
I  bent  down  and  pressed  my  lips  to  her  hand.  .  .  . 

A  tremulous  sound,  resembling  a  broken  sob, 
resounded,  and  I  felt  on  my  hair  the  touch  of  a 
weak  hand,  which  was  quivering  like  a  leaf.  I 
raised  my  head  and  saw  her  face.  How  sud- 
denly it  had  become  transfigured!  The  expres- 
sion of  terror  had  vanished  from  it,  her  gaze  had 
retreated   somewhere   far   away,   and   drew   me 

306 


ASYA 

after  it;  her  lips  were  slightly  parted,  her  brow 
had  become  as  pallid  as  marble,  and  her  curls  were 
floating  backward,  as  though  the  wind  had  blown 
them.  I  forgot  everything,  I  drew  her  to  me— 
her  hand  obeyed  submissively,  her  whole  body 
was  drawn  after  the  hand;  her  shawl  slipped 
from  her  shoulders,  and  her  head  sank  softly  on 
my  breast  and  lay  there  beneath  my  ardent 
lips.  .  .  . 

"  Yours,"— she  whispered,  in  a  barely  audible 
voice. 

My  arms  were  already  stealing  round  her 
waist.  .  .  .  But  suddenly,  the  memory  of  Ga- 
gin  illuminated  me  like  a  flash  of  hghtning.— 
"  What  are  we  doing?  "—I  cried,  and  drew  back 
with  agitation.  ..."  Your  brother  ....  he 
knows  all.    He  knows  that  I  am  with  you." 

Asya  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  Yes,"— I  went  on,  rising  and  walking  away 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  —  "  Your  brother 
knows  everything.  ...  I  must  tell  him  every- 
thing. .  .  ." 

"You  must?"— she  said  indistinctly.  She 
evidently  could  not  yet  recover  herself,  and  un- 
derstood me  imperfectly. 

"  Yes,  yes,"— I  repeated,  with  a  certain  ob- 
duracy:—" and  for  that  you  alone  are  to  blame. 
—Why  did  you  betray  your  secret?  Who  forced 
you  to  tell  your  brother  all  ?  He  came  to  me  to- 
day himself  and  repeated  to  me  your  conversation 

307 


ASYA 

with  him."— I  tried  not  to  look  at  Asya,  and 
paced  the  room  in  long  strides. — "  Now  all  is  lost, 
all,  all." 

Asya  endeavoured  to  rise  from  her  chair. 

"  Stay," — I  exclaimed: — "  stay,  I  beg  of  you. 
You  have  to  deal  with  an  honest  man, — yes,  with 
an  honest  man. — But,  for  God's  sake,  what  agi- 
tated you?  Had  you  observed  any  change  in  me? 
But  I  could  not  dissimulate  before  your  brother 
when  he  came  to  me  to-day." 

"  I  did  not  summon  my  brother,"— Asya's 
frightened  whisper  made  itself  heard: — "  he  came 
of  his  own  accord." 

"  Just  see  what  you  have  done," — I  went  on. — 
"  Now  you  want  to  go  away.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes;  I  must  go  away,"— said  she,  as  softly 
as  before: — "and  I  asked  you  to  come  hither 
merely  for  the  purpose  of  bidding  you  fare- 
well." 

"  And  do  you  think," — I  retorted, — "  that  it 
will  be  easy  for  me  to  part  from  you?  " 

"  But  why  did  you  tell  my  brother? " — re- 
peated Asya,  in  perplexity. 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  could  not  do  otherwise.  If 
you  had  not  betrayed  yourself  .  .  .  ." 

"  I  locked  myself  in  my  chamber," — she  re- 
turned ingenuously: — *'  I  did  not  know  that  my 
landlady  had  another  key.  .  .  ." 

This  innocent  excuse,  on  her  lips,  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, almost  drove  me  frantic  then  ....  and 

308 


ASYA 

even  now  I  cannot  recall  it  without  emotion. 
Poor,  honest,  sincere  child! 

"  And  now,  all  is  at  an  end!  "—I  began  again. 
— "  All.  Now  we  must  part."— I  cast  a  stealthy 
glance  at  Asya  ....  her  face  flushed  swiftly. 
She  was  both  ashamed  and  alarmed,  I  felt  it.  I 
myself  was  walking  and  talking  as  though  in  a 
fever.—"  You  did  not  allow  the  feeling  to  de- 
velop which  was  beginning  to  ripen;  you  your- 
self have  ruptured  our  bond,  you  did  not  trust 
me,  you  doubted  me.  .  .  ." 

While  I  was  speaking,  Asya  bent  forward 
lower  and  lower, — and  suddenly  fell  on  her  knees, 
bowed  her  head  on  her  hands,  and  burst  out  sob- 
bing. I  ran  to  her,  I  tried  to  raise  her,  but  she 
would  not  let  me.  I  cannot  endure  woman's 
tears;  I  immediately  lose  my  self-control  at  the 
sight  of  them. 

"  Anna  Nikolaevna,  Asya," — I  kept  repeat- 
ing:— "pray,  I  implore  you,  for  God's  sake, 
stop.  .  .  ."    Again  I  took  her  hand. 

But,  to  my  great  surprise,  she  suddenly  sprang 
to  her  feet, — with  the  swiftness  of  lightning  flew 
to  the  door,  and  vanished.  .  .  . 

When,  a  few  moments  later,  Frau  Luise  en- 
tered the  room,  I  was  still  standing  in  the  middle 
of  it  as  though  I  had  been  struck  by  a  thunder- 
bolt. I  did  not  understand  how  that  meeting 
could  have  ended  so  speedily,  so  stupidly — and 
when  I  had  not  said  the  hundredth  part  of  what 

309 


ASYA 

I  had  meant  to  say,  of  what  I  ought  to  have  said, 
—when  I  myself  had  not  yet  known  how  it 
would  turn  out 

"  Has  the  Fraulein  gone?  " — Frau  Luise  asked 
me,  elevating  her  yellow  eyebrows  to  her  very 
wig. 

I  stared  at  her  Hke  a  fool— and  left  the  room. 


XVII 

I  MADE  my  way  out  of  the  town  and  set  off 
straight  across  the  open  country.  Vexation, 
fierce  vexation  gnawed  me.  I  overwhelmed  my- 
self with  reproaches.  How  could  I  have  failed 
to  understand  the  cause  which  had  made  Asya 
change  the  place  of  our  tryst,  how  could  I  have 
failed  to  appreciate  what  it  had  cost  her  to  go  to 
that  old  woman,  why  had  I  not  held  her  back? 
Alone  with  her,  in  that  dim,  barely-lighted  room, 
I  had  found  the  strength,  I  had  had  the  heart — 
to  repulse  her,  even  to  upbraid  her.  .  .  .  And  now 
her  image  haunted  me,  I  entreated  its  forgive- 
ness ;  the  memory  of  that  pale  face,  of  those  moist 
and  timid  eyes,  of  the  uncurled  hair  on  the  bowed 
neck,  the  light  touch  of  her  head  on  my  breast 
burned  me.  "  Yours  "  ....  I  heard  her  whis- 
per. "  I  have  acted  according  to  my  conscience," 
I  assured  myself.  .  .  .  Untrue!  Had  I  really 
desired  such  a  solution?     Was  I  in  a  condition 

310 


ASYA 

to  part  from  her?  Could  I  do  without  her? 
"  Madman !  madman !  "  I  repeated  viciously.  .  .  . 
In  the  meantime  night  had  descended.  With 
huge  strides  I  wended  my  way  to  the  house  where 
Asya  lived. 


XVIII 

Gi-GiN  came  out  to  meet  me. 

"Have  you  seen  my  sister?" — he  shouted  to 
me  from  afar. 

"Is  n't  she  at  home?"— I  asked. 

"  No." 

"  She  has  not  returned? " 

"  No.  ...  I  am  to  blame,"— went  on  Gagin: 
— "I  could  not  hold  out:  contrary  to  our  compact 
I  went  to  the  chapel;  she  was  not  there:  so  she 
did  not  come? " 

"  She  was  not  at  the  chapel." 

"  And  you  have  not  seen  her?  " 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  I  had  seen  her. 

"Where?" 

"  At  Frau  Luise's.— I  parted  from  her  an 
hour  ago," — I  added. — "  I  was  convinced  that  she 
had  returned  home." 

"  Let  us  wait."— said  Gagin. 

We  entered  the  house  and  sat  down  side  by 
side.  We  maintained  silence.  We  both  felt  ex- 
tremely embarrassed.     We  kept  incessantly  ex- 

311 


ASYA 

changing  glances,  gazing  at  the  door,  listening. 
At  last  Gagin  rose. 

"  This  is  outrageous!  "—he  exclaimed:—"  My 
heart  will  not  keep  still.  She  is  torturing  me,  by 
Heaven.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  and  seek  her." 

We  went  out.  It  was  completely  dark  already 
out  of  doors. 

"  What  did  you  and  she  talk  about?  "—Gagin 
asked  me,  pulling  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 

"  I  only  saw  her  for  five  minutes  altogether," 
— I  replied: — *'  I  talked  to  her  in  the  way  we  had 
agreed  upon." 

"Do  you  know  what?  "—he  returned:—"  We 
had  better  separate;  we  may  hit  upon  her  the 
more  promptly  in  that  way. — In  any  case,  come 
hither  an  hour  hence." 


XIX 

I  DESCENDED  briskly  from  the  vineyard,  and 
rushed  to  the  town.  Swiftly  did  I  make  the 
round  of  the  streets,  looking  everywhere,  even 
into  Frau  Luise's  windows ;  returned  to  the  Rhine 
and  ran  alone  the  shore.  .  .  .  From  time  to  time 
I  met  feminine  fomis,  but  Asya  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  Irritation  was  already  beginning  to  tor- 
ment me.  A  secret  alarm  tortured  me,  and  it  was 
not  alarm  only  that  I  felt.  .  .  .  No,  I  felt  re- 
pentance, the  most  burning  compassion,  love— 

312 


ASYA 

yes!  the  tenderest  love.  I  wrung  my  hands,  I 
called  on  Asya  athwart  the  gathering  mists  of 
night,  at  first  in  a  low  tone,  then  ever  more  and 
more  loudly;  I  repeated  a  hundred  times  that 
I  loved  her,  that  I  swore  never  to  part  from  her ; 
I  would  have  given  everything  in  the  world  to 
hold  her  cold  hand  once  more,  to  hear  once 
more  her  gentle  voice,  to  behold  her  once  more  be- 
fore me. . .  .  She  had  been  so  near,  she  had  come  to 
me  with  entire  resolution,  in  full  innocence  of 
heart  and  feelings,  she  had  brought  to  me  her 
unsullied  youth  ....  and  I  had  not  pressed 
her  to  my  breast,  I  had  deprived  myself  of  the 
bliss  of  seeing  how  her  lovely  face  would  have 
blossomed  forth  with  the  joy  and  tranquillity  of 
rapture.  .  .  .  That  thought  nearly  drove  me 
mad. 

"  Where  can  she  have  gone,  what  has  she  done 
with  herself?  "  —  I  exclaimed  in  the  grief  of  im- 
potent despair.  .  .  .  Something  white  suddenly 
gleamed  on  the  very  brink  of  the  river. — I  knew 
that  spot;  there,  over  the  grave  of  a  man  who 
had  been  drowned  seventy  years  before,  stood  a 
stone  cross,  with  an  ancient  inscription,  half 
buried  in  the  ground.— My  heart  died  within  me. 
.  .  .  .  I  ran  to  the  cross:  the  white  figure  dis- 
appeared. I  shouted:  "Asyal"  My  wild  voice 
frightened  me— but  no  one  answered.  .  .  . 

I  decided  to  go  and  inquire  whether  Gagin  had 
found  her. 

313 


ASYA 


XX 


Clambering  alertly  up  the  path  of  the  vineyard, 
I  descried  a  light  in  Asya's  room.  .  .  .  This  re- 
assured me  somewhat. 

I  approached  the  house;  the  lower  door  was 
locked.  I  knocked.  An  unlighted  window  in 
the  lower  story  was  cautiously  opened,  and  Ga- 
gin's  head  made  its  appearance. 

"  Have  you  found  her?  "—I  asked  him. 

*'  She  has  returned," — he  replied  to  me  in  a 
whisper: — "she  is  in  her  room,  and  is  undress- 
ing.   All  is  as  it  should  be." 

"  God  be  thanked!  " — I  exclaimed  with  an  in- 
expressible outburst  of  joy: — "  God  be  thanked! 
everything  is  splendid  now.  But  you  know  we 
must  confer  together  further." 

"  Some  other  time,"— he  replied,  softly  draw- 
ing the  casement  toward  him:—"  some  other 
time,  but  now  good-bye." 

"Until  to-morrow,"  I  said:— "  to-morrow 
everything  will  be  settled." 

"  Good-bye,"— repeated  Gagin.  The  window 
closed. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  knocking  at  the  window. 
I  wanted  to  tell  Gagin  then  and  there  that  I  asked 
for  his  sister's  hand.  But  such  a  wooing  at  such 
a  time.  .  .  .  "Yes,  to-morrow," — I  said  to  my- 
self:— "  to-morrow  I  shall  be  happy.  . 

314 


>» 


ASYA 

To-morrow  I  shall  be  happy!  There  is  no  to- 
morrow for  happiness;  neither  has  it  any  yes- 
terday, and  it  recks  not  of  the  future;  it  has  the 
present,  and  not  even  a  day  at  that — but  a 
moment. 

I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  to  Z.  My  feet 
did  not  bear  me  thither,  neither  did  a  boat  con- 
vey me ;  I  was  lifted  aloft  on  some  sort  of  broad, 
mighty  pinions.  I  passed  the  bush  where  a 
nightingale  was  singing,  I  halted  and  listened  for 
a  long  time ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  chanting 
my  love  and  my  bliss. 


XXI 

When,  on  the  following  morning,  I  began  to 
draw  near  to  the  familiar  little  house,  I  was  struck 
by  one  circumstance:  all  its  windows  stood  wide 
open,  and  the  door  also  was  open;  some  papers 
or  other  were  trailing  about  in  front  of  the  thresh- 
old; the  servant-maid  with  a  broom  made  her 
appearance  beyond  the  door. 

I  went  up  to  her.  .  .  . 

"They  have  gone  away!"— she  blurted  out, 
before  I  could  manage  to  ask  her  whether  the 
Gagins  were  at  home. 

"  Gone  away?  "...  I  repeated "  What  do 

you  mean  by  '  gone  away? '    Whither?  " 

"  They  went  away  this  morning,  at  six  o'clock, 

315 


ASYA 

and  did  not  say  where.  Wait,  you  are  Mr.  N.,  I 
think?" 

"  I  am  Mr.  N." 

"  The  landlady  has  a  letter  for  you."— The 
maid  went  up-stairs  and  returned  with  the  letter. 
— "  Here  it  is,  if  you  please." 

"  But  it  cannot  be.  .  .  .  What  does  it  mean?  " 
—I  was  beginning.  The  maid  stared  dully  at  me 
and  began  to  sweep. 

I  unfolded  the  letter.  It  was  from  Gagin; 
there  was  not  a  line  from  Asya.  He  began  by  beg- 
ging me  not  to  be  angry  with  him  for  his  sud- 
den departure ;  he  was  convinced  that,  on  mature 
consideration,  I  would  approve  of  his  decision. 
He  could  discern  no  other  issue  from  the  situa- 
tion, which  might  become  difficult  and  dangerous. 
— "Last  night," — he  wrote, — "while  we  were 
both  waiting  in  silence  for  Asya,  I  became  defini- 
tively convinced  of  the  necessity  of  a  separation. 
There  are  prejudices  which  I  respect;  I  under- 
stand that  you  cannot  marry  Asya.  She  has  told 
me  all ;  for  the  sake  of  her  peace  of  mind,  I  must 
yield  to  her  repeated,  urgent  entreaties." — At  the 
end  of  the  letter  he  expressed  his  regret  that  our 
acquaintance  had  come  to  so  speedy  an  end, 
wished  me  happiness,  pressed  my  hand  in  friendly 
wise,  and  implored  me  not  to  try  to  hunt  them 
up. 

"What  prejudices?  "—I  cried,  as  though  he 
could  hear  me: — "What  nonsense!     Who  gave 

316 


ASYA 

him  a  right  to  steal  her  from  me? "  ....  I 
clutched  my  head. 

The  maid-servant  began  to  call  loudly  for  the 
landlady;  her  fright  made  me  recover  my  senses. 
One  thought  kindled  in  me: — to  find  them,  to  find 
them,  at  any  cost.  To  accept  this  blow,  to  recon- 
cile myself  to  this  conclusion  of  the  matter  was 
impossible.  I  learned  from  the  landlady  that 
they  had  gone  aboard  a  steamer  at  six  o'clock,  and 
sailed  down  the  Rhine.  I  betook  myself  to  the 
office ;  there  I  was  informed  that  they  had  bought 
tickets  for  Cologne.  I  went  home  with  the  in- 
tention of  immediately  packing  up  and  following 
them.  I  was  obliged  to  pass  Frau  Luise's  house. 
....  Suddenly  I  heard  some  one  calling  me.  I 
raised  my  head,  and  beheld  in  the  window  of  the 
room  where  I  had  met  Asya  on  the  day  before, 
the  burgomaster's  widow.  She  was  smiling  with 
her  repulsive  smile,  and  calling  to  me.  I  turned 
away,  and  was  about  to  pass  on ;  but  she  screamed 
after  me  that  she  had  something  for  me.  These 
words  brought  me  to  a  standstill,  and  I  entered 
her  house.  How  shall  I  express  my  feelings, 
when  I  beheld  that  little  room  once  more.  .  .  . 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact," — began  the  old  woman, 
pointing  out  to  me  a  tiny  note: — "  I  ought  to 
have  given  you  this  only  in  case  you  came  to  me 
of  your  own  accord ;  but  you  are  such  a  very  fine 
young  man.    Take  it." 

I  took  the  note. 

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ASYA 

On  the  tiny  scrap  of  paper  stood  the  following 
words,  hastily  scrawled  in  pencil: 

*' Farewell,  we  shall  see  each  other  no  more.  ""Tis  not 
out  of  pride  that  I  am  going  away, — no;  I  cannot  do 
otherwise.  Yesterday,  when  I  wept  before  you,  if  you 
had  said  to  me  but  one  word,  only  one  word — I  would 
have  remained.  You  did  not  say  it.  Evidently,  it  is 
better  so.  .  .  .  Farewell  forever !  "* ' 

One  word.  .  .  .  Oh,  madman  that  I  am !  That 
word.  ...  I  had  repeated  it  with  tears  in  my 
eyes  the  night  before,  I  had  scattered  it  on  the 
wind,  I  had  reiterated  it  amid  the  empty  fields 
....  but  I  had  not  said  it  to  her,  I  had  not 
told  her  that  I  loved  her.  .  .  .  But  I  had  not 
been  able  to  utter  that  word  then.  When  I  met 
her  in  that  fateful  chamber  there  was  within  me, 
as  yet,  no  clear  consciousness  of  my  love;  it  had 
not  even  awakened  while  I  was  sitting  with  her 
brother  in  irrational  and  painful  silence.  ...  It 
had  flamed  up  with  irresistible  force  only  some 
moments  later  when,  afl*righted  by  the  possibility 
of  unhappiness,  I  had  begun  to  seek  her  and 
and  call  to  her  ....  but  then  it  was  too  late. 
"But  this  is  impossible!"  I  shall  be  told.  I 
know  not  whether  it  be  possible,— I  do  know  that 
it  is  true.  Asya  would  not  have  gone  away  had 
there  been  even  a  shade  of  coquetry  in  her,  and 
if  her  position  had  not  been  a  false  one.    She  was 

318 


ASYA 

not  able  to  endure  what  any  other  woman  would 
have  borne;  I  had  not  understood  that.  My  evil 
genius  had  stopped  the  avowal  on  my  lips  dur- 
ing my  last  meeting  with  Gagin  in  front  of  the 
darkened  window,  and  the  last  thread  at  which  I 
could  still  clutch  had  slipped  out  of  my  hands. 

That  same  day  I  returned,  with  my  trunk 
packed,  to  L.,  and  embarked  for  Cologne.  I  re- 
member that  the  steamer  had  not  yet  left  the 
wharf,  and  I  was  mentally  bidding  farewell  to 
those  streets,  to  all  those  places  which  I  was  des- 
tined to  behold  no  more, — when  I  caught  sight 
of  Hanchen.  She  was  sitting  by  the  shore,  but 
not  sad;  a  young  and  handsome  man  was  stand- 
ing by  her  side,  laughing  and  narrating  some- 
thing to  her ;  while,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine, 
my  little  Madonna  was  still  gazing  out  as  sadly 
as  ever  from  the  dark  greenery  of  the  ash-tree. 

XXII 

In  Cologne  I  came  upon  traces  of  the  Gagins: 
I  learned  that  they  had  gone  to  London,  and  I  set 
out  in  pursuit  of  them ;  but  in  London  all  my  re- 
searches proved  vain.  For  a  long  time  I  would 
not  submit,  for  a  long  time  I  persisted ;  but  I  was 
finally  compelled  to  renounce  all  hopes  of  over- 
taking them. 

And  I  never  beheld  them — I  never  beheld 
Asya  again.     Obscure  rumours  reached  me  con- 

319 


ASYA 

cerning  him,  but  she  had  vanished  from  me  for- 
ever. I  do  not  even  know  whether  she  is  ahve. 
One  day,  several  years  afterward,  I  caught  a 
ghmpse,  abroad,  in  a  railway  carriage,  of  a  wo- 
man whose  face  vividly  reminded  me  of  the  never- 
to-be-forgotten  features  ....  but  I  was,  in  all 
probability,  deceived  by  an  accidental  resem- 
blance. Asya  has  remained  in  my  memory  the 
same  little  girl  as  I  knew  her  at  the  best  period  of 
my  life,  as  I  saw  her  for  the  last  time,  bowed 
over  the  back  of  a  low,  wooden  chair. 

I  am  bound  to  confess,  however,  that  I  did  not 
grieve  too  long  over  her :  I  even  thought  that  Fate 
had  ordained  matters  rightly  in  not  uniting  me  to 
Asya;  I  comforted  myself  with  the  thought  that 
I  probably  should  not  have  been  happy  with  such 
a  woman.  I  was  young  then  and  the  future, 
— that  brief,  swift  future, — seemed  to  be  limitless. 
May  not  that  which  has  been  repeat  itself,  I 
thought,  and  in  still  better,  still  more  beautiful 
form?  ...  I  have  known  other  women,— but 
the  feeling  awakened  in  me  by  Asya,  that  glow- 
ing, tender,  profound  emotion,  has  not  been  re- 
peated. No !  No  eyes  have  taken  the  place  with 
me  of  those  eyes  which  once  were  fixed  upon  me 
with  love,  and  to  no  heart  which  has  reclined  on 
my  breast  has  my  own  heart  responded  with 
such  sweet  and  joyous  swooning!  Condemned 
to  the  solitude  of  an  old  bachelor  without  family, 
I  am  living  out  the  wearisome  years;  but  I  pre- 

320 


ASYA 

serve  like  sacred  treasures  her  tiny  notes  and  the 
withered  spray  of  geranium,  that  same  spray 
which  she  once  tossed  to  me  from  the  window. 
It  still  emits  a  faint  fragrance,  but  the  hand 
which  gave  it  to  me,  that  hand  which  I  was  fated 
to  press  but  once  to  my  lips,  may  have  long  been 
mouldering  in  the  grave.  .  .  .  And  I  myself 
.  .  .  .  what  has  become  of  me?  What  is  left 
in  me  of  those  blissful  and  troubled  days,  of  those 
winged  hopes  and  aspirations?  Such  a  faint  ex- 
halation of  an  insignificant  plant  outlives  all  the 
joys  and  woes  of  a  man— outlives  even  the  man 
himself. 


321 


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DATE  DUE 

J  UN  18  :>/; 

APH  0  7  1077 

^    •      IsJ// 

a  39 

UCSD  Libr. 

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